


To Tempt the Wilderness

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Awkward Boners, Big Bang Challenge, Fishing, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Javert's Derailment, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Sacrificing Valjean, Slow Build, Survival, UST, escargots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If he abandoned Javert here, he would be able to do more good – what was the life of one man who would as soon incarcerate a beggar than see him fed, weighed against the many souls that had come to depend on Madeleine?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>In that moment, he felt the weight of his responsibility settle with great heaviness onto his already bent shoulders, until he felt that he would break, that certainly even his own strength was not enough to bear the weight of such a choice, that no man should be asked to make such a decision.</i>
</p><p>While travelling, a storm leaves Madeleine and Javert lost and cut off from all roads in a lonely valley in the Ardennes. But even more worrying than the need to find food and shelter is the fact that Javert is injured, and Madeleine, despite the secrets of his past, cannot leave when that might mean Javert’s death. When another accident forces Madeleine to choose between keeping his secrets and watching Javert die, or revealing himself as Jean Valjean to save Javert’s life, the already uncomfortable intimacy of being forced to rely on each other for survival becomes even more unbearable...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to MissM for being the best beta ever; I cannot even imagine this fandom without your encouragement and enthusiasm and help. <3  
> Thank you also to MissM and Stripy for all the wordwars to which I owe at least half of my wordcount, I never thought I'd finish a Big Bang in my life! Also, thank you to everyone who hangs out on IRC and Skype with me and has soothed my anxietes with helpful suggestions of "handwave it" and "yes, everyone loves long descriptions of fishing". You guys are the best. :D  
> And all my love and gratitude to [beorntobewild](http://beorntobewild.tumblr.com/) for the gorgeous art and all the flailing at each other about the project and being an even sweeter and kinder and more fun person in reality than you already are online, which should be impossible but isn't! I'm so glad we got to do this together! \o/

Oh! who in such a night will dare  
To tempt the wilderness?  
And who ’mid thunder peals can hear  
Our signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would rise  
To try the dubious road?  
Nor rather deem from nightly cries  
That outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!  
More fiercely pours the storm!  
Yet here one thought has still the power  
To keep my bosom warm.

_Lord Byron - Stanzas composed during a Thunderstorm_

_~_

 

The storm had rolled in with sudden force. The clouds in the distance had come closer with a speed that their horse had not been able to outrun; when they grew worried and started to contemplate the need to find shelter, it was already too late.

At first, it grew dark. Clouds towered above them, a mass of swirling darkness that was all of a sudden illuminated by lightning strong enough that for a heartbeat, Madeleine could once more see the path before them as clearly as in brightest sunlight. Javert drew in a startled breath, his hand tightening on the rail of the carriage as if he was fighting the sudden need to take the reins from Madeleine's hands and whip the horse to reach the closest shelter before the wrath of the storm swept them away.

The boom of thunder was so loud that the frightened squeal of the horse was swallowed up by it. More lightning followed, great and terrible slashes that ripped apart the darkness of the sky relentlessly, blinding them, and further startling the horse that once more screamed in fear and reared, then chose escape down the narrow road that led further into the forest.

Madeleine held on to the reins, even though there was no guiding the beast. No matter how he pulled and yelled, the brown gelding he had been assured was a fast and reliable horse had taken the bit between his teeth and now raced down the moss-covered path, flanks shuddering and great eyes rolling as the lightning seemed to pursue them.

Javert clutched at his arm; his mouth opened, but another boom of thunder followed, and Madeleine could not make out the words. In the one heartbeat of blinding light granted by another flash, he saw that Javert's face was white and terrible, and then the man's large hands closed around the reins as well, pulling with all his strength, which, in the end, was not enough to hold a horse that found itself pursued by thunder and lightning challenging even the cannons of Waterloo.

He only realized that the ground beneath them had changed from wet soil to wood when there was the sound of splintering planks in the break between thunder. He yanked on the reins once more, but already it was too late; he tumbled against Javert as the carriage tilted, there was another crash, the horse screamed, and then he fell.

One of the splintered planks of wood broke his fall, and as the carriage turned and then plunged into darkness and roaring water beneath what he now in terror realized was a collapsed bridge, he felt a hand still clutching at one of his arms. With the next flash of lightning, he stared right into Javert's panicked eyes, saw him scrabble helplessly for purchase at a broken beam on which his chest had come to rest while his legs dangled in the darkness beneath the bridge that threatened to swallow him, just as it had swallowed the horse moments ago.

"Javert," he called out, unable to hear his own voice through the sound of wind and thunder. "Don't let go, Javert!" Slowly, painfully, he moved back, pulling Javert with him onto the treacherous planks that still held. He did not dare to look behind him to see if the bridge would carry them both, or dare to check how much further he would have to pull Javert. He could feel the tremor in the wet wood beneath him; one wrong move, he thought, and they would both be plunged into darkness. Later, he would remember that moment, and wonder what his life might have become had destiny swallowed the fearsome Inspector Javert that night – but during those long minutes that seemed as if an age passed in the darkness as he crawled backwards, all his attention was focused on the groaning man that clung to him there on the precipice, and his thoughts held nothing but fear and the instinctive need to survive.

Javert did not speak when he realized at last that he was kneeling in cold mud. If he made sounds, they could not be heard over the roar of the swollen river that still rushed through the darkness before them. But Javert lived; his arms were wet and cold and slick with mud, but they trembled in his grasp, and when he tried to push himself to his feet, they clutched at him, as if even now that the greatest danger seemed past, Javert still thought himself dangling over the grasping hand of death.

Madeleine took hold of his shoulders then, shuddering all over with sudden force when his body as well realized that he, too, had escaped certain death only by the grace of God.

"Stand, Javert," he called out, deafened by the booms of thunder that still resounded around them on this battlefield of nature. It took all his strength to pull Javert up; the usually so stoic man was shivering, and when Madeleine took a step back, encouraging Javert to follow him away from that raging torrent, he cried out and slumped against him, so that Madeleine staggered beneath the sudden weight.

"Javert!" His cry was swallowed by another clap of thunder, but Javert's eyes opened, wide and glazed with pain, and he shook his head as a groan escaped him.

"My leg – I can't..."

Madeleine bit back a curse when another flash illuminated a leg that seemed strangely twisted.

"We need to get away from here!" He flinched when what remained of the bridge shuddered and creaked, and then suddenly fell away into the darkness, as if a giant had reached out for it and torn it away in anger.

"Javert! Lean on me, hold on – we have to get away from here, we are too close to the river!" He did not know if Javert understood his words, for the roar of the water was growing ever louder. But Javert's hands tightened on his arm, so that the man could lean on him as they began to slowly scale a small hill. He fought to drag both of them upwards, bearing most of Javert's weight, away from the river and still fearing that any moment the soil might move beneath their feet to be carried away by the roaring waters.

He did not know for how long he carried Javert through the darkness. Eventually the flashes of lightning decreased in frequency, and the thunder would wait several heartbeats before it came rolling around them, little more now than the sound of cannons in the distance, the great battle passed. The sound of the rain pouring down with unremitting force was all that he could hear, coupled with the breathless groans that came from Javert with every slow step.

It seemed to him that they must have fought their way upwards through the darkness for a long time, but at last, illuminated by another flash of lightning, he saw several large boulders appear through the veil of the rain. There was just enough light remaining that he could see that there was a small opening where several of the boulders leaned onto each other, and with the way the rain continued to fall, it was the best way to pass the night out of the rain. With the bridge torn away by the river and the storm still raging, he did not think that anyone would set out to look for them – if they even knew where to look.

One of Javert's men had accompanied them from Montreuil, but had been forced to stay behind at a tavern shortly after they left Reims when his horse had begun to limp and no other steed could be found in time. Madeleine had silently cursed his misfortune then, for already the entire situation made him grit his teeth. He had never desired to travel in the company of Javert, especially not on this trip into the Ardennes that meant several days of uninterrupted travel with a man who neither smiled nor talked, but sat silent and unmoving for hours by his side in the carriage while Madeleine feared for what secrets such close observation might give away. And yet, the situation was unfortunate enough that there had been no other solution than travel in the company of the Inspector. A man who stole half the money in the town's coffers and ran, only to be caught and imprisoned for interrogation just before he could cross the border to Luxembourg, was an event that called for the personal attention of both the mayor and the inspector, so Madeleine, who had paced for two days after he received the news and come up with and discarded a hundred excuses, had seen no other choice but to travel all the way into the Ardennes in the company of the fearsome Inspector, who had indeed proven to be as forbidding a travel companion as his nature had promised.

“Come, Javert; we can rest here. I will look at your leg,” he said as he helped Javert lean against a rock, then knelt to carefully explore the little opening formed by the boulders. The space was small – much smaller than he had hoped, barely sufficient for two men. And yet, his hands encountered only layers of dry leaves, and with the way his body was already beginning to tremble in his rain-soaked clothes, the mere prospect of being able to spend the night out of the rain and the wind was so tempting that he knew he would not be able to take another step.

Javert made another pained sound when he drew him into the tiny cave. There was not enough space to stand, but Madeleine, who was trembling harder now that the rush of danger was past, hoped that what heat their bodies generated would be enough to keep them from freezing.

"You are wet. Come, take off your coat; I will look at your leg once there is light. There is no blood?" He could barely make out Javert's features. Javert shook his head, but the hand he raised to one of the buttons of his coat was sluggish, and dropped back into his lap after a moment, its task left undone. They were pressed so close together in the small space that Madeleine could feel the tremors that made the tall body shudder. He was glad that the darkness veiled his own apprehension and distaste when he unbuttoned Javert's coat, hoping to find the clothes he wore beneath still dry – but both the waistcoat and shirt revealed were wet and cold, so that Madeleine exhaled with weary despair.

"I am sorry, Javert." He could hear the tiredness in his own voice. He had withstood worse storms in his youth, but a young tree-pruner sheltering beneath a spruce tree for a night while a storm passed was quite a different thing than an aging man who had become used to his chamber and his bed forced to hide in a cave all of a sudden, above all if that man had reason to keep as far away from the town's inspector as possible, lest his body gave away the secrets of his past.

"Take off your trousers, please – here, I shall help you. I need to see your leg. Does it hurt?"

Javert did not make a move to help him, and he did not speak, but all the same he did not protest when Madeleine, as slowly and carefully as possible, divested him of his mud-stained trousers. There was a large tear in the fabric, but when his fingers traced slowly along the leg, he could feel no blood, no gash in the skin. He could feel a bump, though, as if beneath the skin, something had shifted in a way that it should not have, and when he very carefully felt along that strange rise, Javert at last clutched at his arm. Javert was panting; they were close enough that he could feel the heat of his breath against his neck, and the sensation made him grit his teeth; it was too close; he saw before his mind's eye the tiger breathing onto the neck of its prey.

He drew back resolutely, although there was stone at his back, and he could not escape the press of Javert's body that now seemed to curl in on itself as if to protect the wounded leg.

“I am sorry, Javert,” he said at last, forcing his voice to sound even, praying that any residue of fear would be ascribed to their recent escape from death. “I fear your leg might be broken. I shall look at it again tomorrow; it will have to wait for the sun to rise. There is nothing we can do now. We must be lost; they did not mention a bridge in that last village we passed! In the morning, we will find some other way to return. For now you should rest.”

The sound of Javert's harsh breathing filled the small space. Madeleine's unease grew. Javert was in pain; and yet, the mere brush of his skin made his body shudder with disquiet. Was it not enough to have saved the life of a man who would show him no mercy in return if he knew the truth? Must he also be forced to make such a man comfortable, even if it came at the price of his own discomfort?

Javert shivered when another gust of wind brought a new chill with it, and Madeleine pressed his lips together. Without a word, he crawled back to the entrance of the small cave, and there took off his own coat. With both of their coats, he was able to fashion a small curtain that would keep out the worst of the wind; his coat, which was of finer quality than what Javert had been wearing, had even kept his shirt beneath dry enough so that there would be no need to explain why he refused to take it off. Javert's shirt, on the other hand...

It was too dark to see much now, especially with their coats keeping out what little light remained. "You are wet, Javert; if you sleep like this you might not wake, or at least catch such a chill that you will succumb to it before we are found."

Javert did not answer, although Madeleine thought he heard a difference in his fast, pained breathing. "There are enough dry leaves here to suffice as bedding. We will not be comfortable, but we will live." He hesitated for another long moment, then reached out with determination. Javert's shirt was heavy and wet as he stripped it from his unresisting body; his skin was very cold to the touch, so that at last, worry took over, and Madeleine forced himself to ignore his own discomfort at the thought of spending a night nearly skin to skin with a man who would sooner see him in chains than have his life saved, if he knew the truth of him. But Javert's shivering was increasing, and there was still no resistance when Madeleine forced him gently to lie down, and then covered the cold, wet body with heaps of the dry leaves. He spread the damp shirt on top, hoping that it might dry until the morn, and then hesitated once more in the darkness until the weariness made him sway.

Quickly, trying not to think about what it was he was doing, he pulled off his own wet, muddy trousers. He kept the shirt – he thought he would rather freeze to death than give Javert the satisfaction of seeing his scars in the morning, and in any case, it was just his sleeves that were uncomfortably damp. He had known worse than discomfort in Toulon. He listened again in the darkness, but there was still no sound from Javert as Madeleine settled down by his side, and then covered his own body with more of the leaves.

Even though the boulders held off the worst of the wind, it was hard to fall asleep when his body was chilled to the bone and the terror of crawling through the darkness on a bridge that threatened to burst apart beneath him still made him shiver every now and then at the realization of just what he had so barely escaped. And while the small cave might suffice to keep them warm enough to live through the night, even with the leaves covering them he still felt miserably cold and wet. Every bone in his body ached with a deep weariness that brought back dark memories of Toulon, of chains, of never-ending toil and damp, foul air.

He slept fitfully. He did not count how often he woke; he thought that he must have spent more time awake than dozing miserably. Javert did not speak or move at first, and apart from the sound of his breathing, Madeleine might have thought himself all alone in this forgotten part of the Ardennes.

At last, when he woke once more, enough of the sparse moonlight fell in through the gaps between the boulders above that he could see Javert's face. Somehow, during his sleep the man had moved closer. There was not much space – not enough space for two grown men, in truth – but even so, where unease had before made them try to keep modestly apart, now Javert rested against him. His skin was very warm, but Madeleine could feel shivers run through the body that half covered his own. In what little light there was, he could see that his eyes were closed tightly, though his skin gleamed with sweat.

For a long moment, he did not move. He was frozen, aware of every single part of his body that felt the press of hot skin against his – the heaviness of Javert's chest resting on top of him, the roughness of mud-caked hair against his cheek, a leg long and hard with muscle pressed against his own.

Javert was warm, and that alone was almost enough to draw his exhausted body back into sleep. For the first time that night, the dull ache deep in his bones had left him, so that all he felt was a great tiredness, and the temptation of mindless sleep. And yet.

He could feel Javert's breath against his skin. The air he exhaled was warm, too, and he could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took. He could feel the heat of his skin, the heaviness of muscle, the roughness of his hair; could feel the small tremors that ran through the tall body, the way his fingers curled almost imperceptibly against his own chest with every breath.

It did not seem right. It was terrifying, to imagine that a man who had never been anything but the embodiment of injustice, who was the inflexibility of stone, the coldness of an automaton without soul, could shiver and tremble and hurt, could curl into another person, fully human at last in that instinctive search for warmth and contact. Worse: to imagine him waking in the morning, shedding all that was human again with the same ease with which he would put on his coat once more, and then regard Madeleine with cold distrust, weighing every word and every action, as if every single act of kindness or compassion were one more mark added against Madeleine on a tally into a secret ledger.

At last, there was a soft groan. Javert felt almost too warm and heavy now, despite the chill of their small cave, and when Madeleine, still reluctant, pressed his fingers to his brow, he found that his skin was burning from within. A fever, he thought as he used his still-damp sleeve to wipe some of the sweat away. A fever, but there was no doctor to call, no portress to bring tea or soup or cold towels – he had not even any cup or bowl to go and fetch Javert water.

His fingers lingered reluctantly against the damp skin. It had been a long time ago – so long ago that it felt now as the life of another person, something he remembered only from the recollections of an observer. But he remembered how a fever would come and go with sudden force, heat the small limbs of a child while his sister would sit awake all night with fear, praying silently as she pressed a cold, wet rag to a fever-flushed forehead.

Javert was no child. Javert was a grown man, strong enough to withstand whatever chill he had taken. And yet, what if there had been a wound after all? What if it was not a chill, but the broken leg? He had no light, no water, not even a towel or a bed to make Javert more comfortable. If Javert died here, he could return to Montreuil and be safe, he thought in despair. And yet, if Javert died here, would he not spend the rest of his life bearing part of that guilt? The Bishop had given him food and a bed for the night without asking any questions. He would have given comfort to any man on his doorstep, to a beggar, a convict, or a man wounded and weary, no matter who that man was, no matter what that man might do.

"Don't go."

The words were spoken very softly, little more than breath given voice as the air brushed against his skin. Javert's eyes were open, but even in the sparse light of the moon Madeleine could see that they were glazed with fever, seeing not him but a dream. Javert shivered and moved, then moaned softly at the pain. One of his hands moved to Madeleine's arm, clutching at him, and though the grip of his fingers was weak, Madeleine froze with terror for a moment, imagining himself caught.

"Don't... leave me. Don't – the bridge–"

Madeleine shuddered, watching as Javert moved even closer, eyes wide with terror. Another pained moan, and then Javert's eyes closed again, his head came to rest against his shoulder, and Madeleine felt the tremors that racked the tall body. He swallowed.

"You are safe, Javert. Sleep," he said, knowing that the man was lost in a fever dream and could not hear him. He kept his hand on his brow, then closed his eyes and bowed his own head, praying softly all through the night, alone with God and his memories, and a man to whom both were a mystery.


	2. Chapter 2

In the light of the morning sun, their situation was more dire than Madeleine had expected. The little cave they had spent the night in had finally grown comfortably warm when the sun heated the boulders, and although it had worried him that Javert had not woken when he carefully extricated himself from what he even now shuddered to think of as an embrace, his brow had been warm, but no longer burning up with fever. Javert needed rest, and in any case would not have been able to move, and so Madeleine made his way back down the slope he had dragged both of them upward during the night.

The bridge was gone. All that remained were splintered planks, and in the light of day he saw that they spanned a gorge filled now with a roaring torrent. There was no way to cross the river here, and the memory of crawling helplessly in the darkness above an unseen chasm once more made him feel weak with the fear that part of the riverbank might be torn away. 

Nothing remained of the carriage. He could not remember if they had passed any huts or other paths; all he remembered was the tavern where they had spent the night, a long day's drive away. They had hoped to make it to Montmédy before the sun set, but now he wondered if they had taken a wrong path. The valleys and gorges of the Ardennes seemed like a labyrinth suddenly, and they had lost their red thread. Where were they, if this was not the road to Montmédy; and if they had indeed by accident ended up in some forgotten valley that led nowhere, would someone think to look for them here?

He followed the path that led around the hill they had scaled in the night. The ground was muddy, but there were no traces of recent carriages to be seen. His hope sank further, although at last it was kindled once more when a small, barely visible footpath departed from the small road to lead up another incline. Brambles lined the path on one side, and although it was yet too early in the summer for the fruit to have ripened, the sight reminded him that what little food they had carried with them in the carriage was gone as well, and that they would need to find some, should the main road not lead to a settlement close by. 

When he made it to the top of the hill, he could see another small valley open up before him. On one side, there loomed the sudden starkness of splintered rock, on the other side, steep hills covered by spruce trees rose. But in between there was a valley filled by tall, green grass that glistened with dew in the light of the morning – and there, nestled near the stony wall, stood what was unmistakably a hut.

Again he thought of Javert, who might think himself abandoned if he woke, but the lure of that first sight of human settlement was too great a temptation to resist. He tried to ease his conscience with the hope that if there was a family living in that poor hovel, Javert would soon have the help he needed – but once he came closer, his hope sank again, and he realized that if once a farmer had made a life in this small valley, he must have left years ago.

There was what had recognizably once been a garden. The small fence was still visible, although it was overgrown by weeds, and although the garden itself had been left untended for a long time, he thought that amidst the burst of green he saw a few cabbages and the leafy greens of carrots. At the back of the house, there were trees and bushes; it was still too early for the apples to have ripened, but through the lush green surrounding him he caught glimpses of red berries.

Inside, the hut was dark and dusty. The door opened with relative ease, and there were a few utensils left that made him think that in the spring, a poacher might hide away here – in one corner, there was a pallet; there was a bucket too, an old pot near a sooty fireplace, a fraying blanket, even a handful of dry kindling. Nevertheless, everything was covered in dust; if this was the hide-away of a hunter, it had been months since the last visit.

When he returned to the cave, he once more pondered where they had ended up. They had driven for long hours, and if this was not the road to Montmédy, then he did not know where he had gone wrong. Maybe it had only happened when the storm broke loose; in the darkness, and with the horse frightened and racing down a dark road, it might have taken a sudden turn onto some lesser road that lead deeper into the unsettled valleys of the Ardennes. If that were the case, they could not be too far away from the more traveled road to Montmédy yet; certainly sooner or later someone would come this way and report the bridge destroyed.

He told this to Javert when he arrived to find him awake, although the news brought no visible emotion to his face. Instead, he was still pale, and when he spoke, he was curt, his voice rough with pain. In the light of the sun, Madeleine could now ascertain that indeed his leg seemed to be broken, but there was no open wound. Javert was in pain, and could not walk without help, but, so Madeleine thought with relief, he would not die, and the fever must have been brought on by the chill he had taken.

He helped Javert to drink from the rainwater that had gathered during the night between two of the boulders. When he suggested to Javert that they should move to the little hut he had found, so that Javert could rest there beneath a roof while Madeleine explored along the path some more to see if there might be another settlement nearby, he balked. After long minutes of discussion, Madeleine gave up trying to make Javert see reason, and ordered the man to come with him. The journey towards the small hut would be long and painful for Javert, but there at least was the promise of a blanket, a fire, a night spent in comparative comfort. 

Javert did not argue once Madeleine had issued the suggestion as command, but even so Madeleine soon regretted that decision. The journey towards the hut took the greater part of the morning, and by the time they had made it into the abandoned house, both were exhausted and covered in sweat. Javert, whom Madeleine had thought would rather cast himself into the torrent that had ripped the bridge away than admit the pain he was in, had been unable to keep small sounds of discomfort from escaping with every step he took, although he was leaning on Madeleine who carried most of his weight.

He did not argue when Madeleine helped him to lie down on the pallet at last. Pain lined his face, and once more a flush had sprung up. When Madeleine felt his skin, it was hot and damp with sweat; he blamed the exertion of the journey, but in truth feared that the fever had once more returned.

Still, there was not very much he could do. He fetched cold water in the bucket and left it next to the bed; he gathered a handful of currants that grew behind the house to leave them with Javert as well. With some luck, he might find a linden tree; although it was too late in the year yet for the tree to be in bloom, a tea brewed of the leaves might give Javert some ease as well.

There was no linden tree, nor was there another hut as he followed the path that led further into the forest. Indeed, he did not think that much travel usually passed this way; the path was narrow, barely enough for a carriage, and overgrown; if it was used at all, it was not very often. His hopes were dashed when the path that had followed the gorge that was home to the wild river began to meander down towards the roaring water again; the walls fell ever steeper here on both sides, and for a moment he was confused when all of a sudden the path suddenly ended.

Was it possible that the narrow road led into the valley, but ended here? And yet, the valley was abandoned, the little hut was empty. He gazed for a long moment at the bare rock that rose on the other side of the river – and there, at last, the path continued, rising from the wild flood that had so nearly torn their lives from them.

If there had been another bridge, then that, too, was gone now. More probable was, Madeleine thought as he studied the way the path continued until it ended all of a sudden in the loud roar of water crashing through the gorge, that there had never been a bridge here; that usually, the river was at its lowest here, a calm, shallow brook that could be forded easily.

Not so now, with the full weight of a week's downpour forcing its way forward. If there had been a way to cross the river here before, it was gone now as certainly as if a bridge had been carried away by the waters; to step into the angry current with even one foot would mean certain death even for a man of Madeleine's strength.

When he returned to the small hut, his spirits were dampened further by the realization that with Javert's injury, it seemed that their best bet was to hope that very soon, someone would start a search for the missing mayor and his inspector of the police – and yet, even if there was to be such a search, how would help cross the raging river?

Within the hut, he found Javert still awkwardly curled up on the pallet in the corner, blessedly asleep. His brow was still clammy with sweat, and his skin felt too warm, yet Madeleine was mostly worried that Javert did not wake until he touched him to feel for a fever, and even more so by the way that Javert looked at him from pain-dull eyes, too tired to argue. All of these things seemed to Madeleine a sign that Javert was very unwell, and yet for now he did not know how to ease his pain.

Mud still clung to Javert's body from where he had been dragged away from the bridge and up the small incline. Now in the daylight, Madeleine could see that it matted the strands of hair together that at some point during that fateful night had escaped from the ribbon. He reached out, then froze when Javert's eyes opened once more, dark and wide with pain, but full of wary recognition this time.

"How do you feel?" he asked, and at Javert's soft groan he helped him sit up a little and then raised the bowl of water to his lips. It was effort enough that Javert half-closed his eyes after he had swallowed, his breath escaping in soft pants, and Madeleine felt an unsettling heaviness in his stomach that was not unlike guilt, although there was nothing he had to feel guilty for. No man had brought about the weather that had torn away the bridge and seen the inspector injured – and had he, who had no reason to want to see Javert safe, not risked his own life to drag him away from the abyss while what remained of the planks swayed beneath their combined weight?

"I am sorry, Javert," he said nevertheless, although he was not quite certain what his apology was for. Javert did not answer, and Madeleine once more brushed his hand carefully against a strand of hair. It was stiff and cold – more a clump of mud than hair, he thought, and looked the man over again.

Javert looked frightening indeed, and Madeleine, who wanted nothing more than to leave this room behind and Javert with it, hesitated once more, his fingers stretched out awkwardly, hovering just a hair's breadth away from Javert's equally mud-stained whiskers. At last, Madeleine swallowed and lowered his hand, looking around the dusty interior to hide his discomfort. 

"You should wash, Javert," he said, fighting with himself for a long moment. "There is mud in your hair. I will – do you think you need my assistance?"

Javert remained silent, and when Madeleine at last dared to meet his eyes once more, he found them dark and unfocused, although Javert had at least managed to raise a hand to his whiskers, tugging at a dried clump of dirt with hazy confusion.

Valjean swallowed again. Instead of pity, all he was capable of feeling was discomfort, and the overwhelming need to feign other tasks – they would need food, after all, water, a fire – and excuse himself to leave Javert to fend for himself with a bucket of water and a rag. He pressed his lips tightly together.

"Do not move, Javert," he said instead, eying the bucket instead of this frustrating man. "I shall fetch water and help."

Javert's head came up a little at the sound of his voice, and he took a shuddering breath. "Monsieur, I... You should not," he said. His hand dropped into his lap once more, and he looked so pale that Madeleine forced himself to reach out and carefully help him to lie down again. He pulled his hands away as quickly as possible, still unsettled by the contact, even after the way they had been forced to spend the night together, and then stood abruptly, eager to escape the hut if only for a moment. 

"I will be back with water," he said, studiously avoiding the dark, unfocused eyes. "The river is not far." 

Once outside, he took a deep breath, feeling as though a crushing weight had been lifted from his chest. After the storm, this day promised to be hot, although it was still too windy for the sunshine to leave him in discomfort. Again he looked over what had once been a garden as he took hold of the old bucket, and then proceeded to investigate behind the house once more, where he had seen a small rivulet making its way through brambles and past roots and rocks when he had gathered a handful of berries earlier. The water had been muddy, but, he reasoned, there was no well near the house, and whoever had once lived in this hut might have chosen to build it near a source of clear water. 

The brambles reached for his trousers as he made his way past them. Here, too, he thought he could make out a small path that had been taken over in recent years by the thorny tendrils. Past the brambles, there stood trees in a small group – apples, plums, cherries, with the nettles growing as tall as his thigh between them. The rivulet came from the steep cliffside behind the trees, and as Madeleine walked closer, the soil beneath his feet springy from layer upon layer of leaves that had fallen undisturbed over the years, the rivulet at last led him to a pond at the base of the cliff, where the water that came running from the rock here had worn a large, smooth basin into the stone over the centuries.

Madeleine stooped to fill the bucket from the clear water, noting dark shapes moving slowly at the bottom. Layers of rotten leaves might have given a home to a slow-moving sheatfish there, he thought, and suddenly felt the ache of his empty stomach once more. He peered into the pond for a long moment, but the shadow was gone; somewhere behind the trees, there was the croaking of toads, and he resolved to see if he might manage to find a nail and some string. They had to eat; what berries he had gathered earlier would not suffice for long, and though the valley looked to him as if he might find game aplenty here, he did not think that whatever poacher might use the hut would have left a musket behind.

Yet this would have to wait. Briskly, he washed the worst of the mud from his skin, then carried the bucket back towards the hut. After the light of the sun outside, the inside seemed stifling and gloomy, and once more he felt that instinctive shudder when he beheld the inspector resting on the pallet in the corner, remembered the warmth of his skin against his own, the terror of bedding down with a dog who would as soon tear out his throat with his teeth, if he but knew.

He contrived to open the window to distract himself from such thoughts. The old wood creaked loudly, but the hinges opened, and rays of sunlight fell in, illuminated the dust dancing in the air, the spiderwebs in the corners. Madeleine turned towards the fireplace in contemplation. With some luck, they might be able to start a fire before darkness fell. Now that the storm had moved on, the sun warmed the small room, but he still remembered how the cold had invaded his bones during the past night, until the dull ache made it nearly impossible to sleep. Here, they had a blanket – but it was old and worn and full of dust and holes. Worse: there was only the one, and the thought of spending a night sharing that blanket with Javert made him first pale, then flush with discomfort as he once more thought of the disconcerting heat of Javert's skin against his chilled body.

Javert was not asleep as he had hoped; instead, his eyes opened as he placed the water down next to him. A part of Madeleine felt relieved to find recognition in them; the larger part of him was struck by sharp, petty disappointment, for he had told himself while he carried the heavy bucket back towards the hut that it would be a quick, simple affair with Javert unconscious.

He moistened his lips, looked at the blanket that covered Javert – there was no helping it, he thought in despair, and would hesitating when he had already told Javert what he intended not be suspicious in its own way? There was no reason to shy away from touch, save for the captive's instinctive fear of the jailer.

He took a deep breath, then pulled the blanket away. Javert shivered, his fingers clenching weakly as if he wanted to cover himself again. Madeleine resolved to have this over with as quickly as possible. 

"Let me wash you, Javert," he said, keeping his voice as calm and reassuring as he could, imagining himself talking to one of the injured he would visit in the hospital betimes, instead of the fearsome inspector. "There is dirt all over you. I will be quick about it; then I need to look at your leg again. The bridge is gone, and I do not think that help will come today."

Javert blinked tiredly, although his brows were drawn together tightly – from pain, Madeleine told himself, not from suspicion. Javert could hardly meet his gaze; Javert, who seemed to have broken his leg in the fall, would not think of whatever reason it was that made him watch Madeleine from the shadows, like a nightmare waiting only for Madeleine to fall asleep to bring him the weight of iron at his legs and the scent of salt in his lungs.

With another deep breath, he took hold of a threadbare rag he had found and dipped it into the water. "I am sorry. It is cold; perhaps, before it is dark, I will succeed in building a fire," he said as he reached out to gently wipe at the stains of dirt that had dried on Javert's face.

He watched Javert's throat work. "Monsieur... you should not," Javert said at last, his voice a low rasp. He coughed weakly, and Madeleine frowned, felt his temperature again. Javert was still warm, but not dangerously so; he hoped that the fever had been caused by the shock and the rain, rather than a deeper injury. 

He pushed Javert gently back onto the pallet and wiped the sweat from his brow with the cool cloth, until Javert relaxed.

"The bridge is gone, as I said," he continued, as much to distract himself as Javert when he began to work the stained, stiff shirt open. "There is a ford, I think, where the road leaves the valley, so if the water recedes, we might be able to cross there. Or perhaps there will be other travelers coming to the bridge, and reporting to the nearest town that it has been swept away, and if your man is looking for us, he will think to explore down this path."

Javert's chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he shuddered once when Madeleine wiped the sweat and dried dirt from his skin, leaving droplets of cold water to run down towards his trousers. Madeleine forced himself not to follow their path, or to contemplate the thought that he would have to strip Javert again to look at his injury very soon. Instead, he concentrated on the mud that still stuck to Javert's skin for as long as it was possible, rubbing at the small, dried clumps of dirt that clung to the sparse curls on his chest until the rag in his hand was warm and Javert shivered miserably, his hand clenching around the blanket. At least, Madeleine observed darkly before he chided himself for his pettiness, here was finally a use for Javert's grudging obedience to the mayor even in his half-delirious state, since he submitted to the cold water without further protest. 

When he sat back at last, he was relieved to see that Javert had closed his eyes, although his brow was creased and his lips tightly pressed together, as if it had taken effort to keep silent. The sight did not help Madeleine’s mood. If Javert found it uncomfortable to have the mayor assist him, he could feel no compassion, for it was he who had dragged Javert from the abyss, he who had carried him towards the small cave, and he who had been forced to strip the man and sleep by his side, as intimate as brothers might be, while being in full possession of his senses that filled his mind with the dull roar of his terror throughout the night at bedding down with the watchdog.

No, Javert might be the one suffering from a broken bone, but at least he had the excuse of his suffering; Madeleine almost envied him that distraction when at last he was forced to end his contemplation and strip Javert of the torn, dirty trousers. This time, Javert's stoicism was not enough to overcome the pain Madeleine could not avoid inflicting on him, even though he handled the injured leg as carefully as possible.

In the light of the sun, the damage that had been done was even more apparent, so that sudden worry rose within him. If no help arrived, if the river did not recede so that they could cross and look for help elsewhere – what might happen to Javert then? To be rid of the man's suspicious vigilance would be a blessing, but Madeleine found that he could not stomach the thought of a man's death, not even this man, not even if it would have bought him this new life he had found by chance. Compassion had bought his freedom once; to tarnish that grace by paying for his continued freedom with another man's life was unthinkable.

Javert could not suppress low groans of pain when Madeleine was forced to lift his leg, first to remove his trousers, then to wash it very carefully. The rise he had felt below the skin was as before, and Javert, who was even paler now, his face already gleaming with new sweat, cried out in pain when Madeleine probed gently at the discolored skin.

“I fear it is indeed broken, Javert,” he said, and did not have to fake the dismay in his voice. Javert, in any case, seemed in too much pain to talk or demand further explanations; Madeleine felt a small amount of relief at the realization that until the time they were found, the injury would keep Javert immobile, and inside the hut, whereas he had excuses enough to spend all day outside to find food or wood, or see if there was a safer way of crossing the ford at the other end of the valley.

For now, once Javert's leg had been cleaned, he searched through the spare stack of dry, dusty kindling that was left until he found two branches that seemed sturdy enough for the purpose, and used them to stabilize the broken leg, tearing up another dusty rag to turn it into a makeshift bandage. Another sound escaped Javert despite Madeleine's gentle touch; it nearly made him shudder to hear that moan of torment, to hear a voice rough and mindless from pain – this was the sound that returned to him in nightmares, the despairing wails of souls tormented in the darkness around him while he lay silent and brooding on his wooden plank.

The memory made him recoil with sudden horror. Fortunately, Javert had at last succumbed to exhaustion and fever once more and found escape from the pain in sleep, or unconsciousness. Madeleine sat beside him for a long moment, his heart racing, beholding once more that iron mercilessness that had treated him as less than human for nineteen long years. Every instinct bade him to flee the hut, to go out to gather wood or berries for the hunger that was beginning to gnaw at him, but over time, when Javert did not move, when his eyes did not open with sudden understanding, when those large hands did not close around his wrists like shackles, Madeleine once more saw the beads of sweat on Javert's brow, and the lines of pain around the firm, narrow mouth. Pain made Javert human, which was in a way more terrifying than when Javert had been iron immutability, the snarling dog loose in the streets of Montreuil he took great pains to avoid – but this was no nightmare given form, no memory of misery to haunt him.

The man before him was wounded, and weak; he was suffering, and in that suffering human, and Madeleine found he could not walk away, as much as he yearned for the quiet of the overgrown, sun-filled garden, or the shallow pond he had discovered. He pressed his fingers to Javert's brow once more, found the skin very warm, though his breathing had grown slow and even. Once more Madeleine moved to wipe the sweat from his face; when his fingers brushed against a clump of mud that had dried in a strand of hair, turning it stiff and unyielding, he did not hesitate.

The black ribbon that usually held the graying hair secured was gone; in its stead, dirt and pieces of dried grass and leaves had become entangled in his hair, and Madeleine, after pulling the worst of it from Javert's hair with gentle fingers, at last pulled the bucket closer, and used the rag again to soak the dried clumps of mud until he could peel them away. Javert did not wake, whether it was sleep that had found him or unconsciousness, and Madeleine was glad for it. He could not imagine the man submitting to such ministrations lightly, and even though he prayed that Javert would have recovered enough to wash himself in a day or two, it seemed wrong to leave the usually so fastidious inspector to sleep covered in dirt, although he doubted that Javert would have done him the same favor, unless he thought that propriety demanded it.

A small flush colored Madeleine's face, and his hands suddenly froze as his gaze was drawn unbidden down Javert's body again at the thought. Would Javert not think this improper, had he been awake for all of it? Uncertainty made Madeleine hesitate. A drop fell from the rag in his hand, dripping onto Javert's brow, which furrowed. The inspector's eyelids fluttered, his lips parted slightly, but no sound escaped. Still Madeleine hesitated, his own breathing suddenly unsteady as his gaze lingered on the bared planes of Javert's chest, and he remembered the strange warmth of that skin pressed to his own during the night. He had been too exhausted and cold then to feel more than a deep, lingering discomfort; now, the memory made his fingers clench around the rag in his hands, brought new heat to his face, and he quickly pulled up the threadbare blanket once more, unable to acknowledge even to himself how his gaze skirted past the length of the inspector's prick that rested quiescent against his thigh. For one moment he thought of how he would have to sleep close to Javert again this night – sharing a blanket, feeling the strange heat of another's skin against his own. The thought was enough to make him get up, almost startled by the sudden panic that had arisen at the image. He would sleep in another corner, he thought – but there was only the one blanket, and would not Javert, who despite the deep suspicion in his eyes had never been able to not bow to Madeleine’s authority, insist that it was the mayor who deserved the comfort of pallet and blanket?

To escape from such contemplation, Madeleine returned to the pond to wash himself as well as their clothes. Again he thought he saw a shadow moving at the deeper end of the pond, and at the thought of fish, his stomach clenched with insistent hunger. He had no intention of returning to the hut until the clothes had dried – the sun was still shining brightly, and so he prayed that by the time afternoon arrived, they would once more be decently dressed. Instead, he made do with his damp shirt, and spent a few hours in the patch of overgrown green that had once been a garden, where to his delight he found a corner that had been taken over by abandoned beets already as large as a child’s fist, sweet and earthy and bleeding red juice as he bit into one.

He explored for as long as he could; he gathered nettles and pine for tea, collected wood in the hope that he would be able to start a fire, unearthed more of the beets and washed them, until at last the sun was sinking, the shadows lengthening, and their clothes were dry enough that he had no excuse left to linger outside. When he entered the hut, Javert's eyes were open, though he was quiet and exhausted, his temperature still high enough that he lacked the energy to question Madeleine, who was glad of it when he helped Javert put on the long, worn shirt once more. Javert's trousers needed mending, he thought with a grimace of distaste as he contemplated the approaching night, and in any case could not be worn over the broken leg stabilized by the branches.

Whoever had last lived in this hut had left behind a tinderbox. Soon there was a small fire burning in the fireplace, and a pot of nettle tea prepared, and he carefully schooled his features into calmness once more as he helped Javert drink, and then urged him to eat a few pieces of the beets he had roasted in the flames. There was something unsettling about the way his fingers were stained red by the juice that stained Javert's lips as well as he fed him piece after piece while Javert chewed in sullen, exhausted silence. Lingering on those reddened lips made something shudder within him, and he made himself think of sharp teeth stained by blood, and tried to ignore the way those lips brushed against his fingers once or twice, strange and terrifying in their human warmth.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, it was still just as uncomfortable to wake by Javert's side, to feel the hot breath of the hunter on his neck, the disconcerting warmth of the tall body pressed to his, as relaxed in sleep as Javert held himself stiff and aloof when awake. There were times during the night when he was grateful for his closeness. They had no axe; all the owner of the hut had left behind was a knife, and while Madeleine knew they were fortunate to have that blade, it was little help in procuring enough wood for a fire. Instead, they made do with what small, fallen branches Madeleine could gather during the day, which was at least enough to prepare more of the tea of nettles, or to cook the beets and turnips he continued to unearth from the overgrown garden. During the night, what was left of the fire would invariably burn out, and while they suffered neither the cold nor the rain of that first night again, Javert was still weak and in pain from his injury. As much as he would have preferred solitude, Madeleine could not make himself take the thin blanket from Javert, which he would have surrendered to the mayor at the mere suggestion that Madeleine would rather sleep in front of the fire than share his pallet.

Madeleine still took pains to stay as far away from Javert as possible during the day, which was easy enough with Javert still mostly immobile. At the inspector’s insistence, he had fashioned him a crutch after the fever had gone. Javert still needed help to rise in the morning, but now he could at least go and relieve himself, for which he had needed Madeleine’s help during the first days, and which had proven a humiliating experience both were loathe to remember. 

For part of the day, Javert would move into the garden with the help of the crutch. There was a large tree-stump in a corner where he sat and mended his clothes with a needle left in a drawer, or crushed beechnuts Madeleine had gathered into a flour, or, one memorable afternoon, gutted and cleaned three small trouts Madeleine had managed to catch throughout a long morning's wait with a makeshift rod further down the widening rivulet, where it flowed swiftly over moss-covered boulders. 

But Madeleine was not always so fortunate. Today once more he had wasted the entire morning at the pool near the cliffside behind their hut, hoping again to lure the large wels catfish, which he could sometimes see as a large, slow shadow from the corner of his eye, to take his bait, which was a simple thing made from a rusty nail and a worm. But the fish was old, and patient; more patient than Madeleine, in any case, whose stomach was aching, and who had at last abandoned the pool to return to Javert empty-handed. They had eaten most of the beets by now; with the garden left to itself for so long, many of the vegetables that had survived and grew wild in corners had been overtaken by weeds, and although Madeleine was grateful for the shelter chance had granted them, which likewise saved them from starvation, he did not think that they could make the sparse carrots and beets that yet remained in the earth last for more than a week. 

Javert was not seated on the tree stump anymore, which was where he had left him, pale and tight-lipped, his back rigidly straight with frustration while Madeleine had tightened his hand around his makeshift rod, praying that Javert would not see his gratitude for the excuse that allowed him to spend long hours out of the inspector's sight. After a moment of hesitation, Madeleine made himself enter the hut, to see if there was anything Javert needed before he found a new excuse to stay away from where the inspector's gaze still made the hair on the back of his neck rise – yet the pallet in the corner was abandoned, the hut was empty. Valjean frowned when he saw that the crutch was gone as well. Where had Javert gone? He could move with the crutch - slowly, painfully, but Javert would accept no help, and Madeleine could not make himself offer a hand to the beast that was just waiting for an excuse to bite the offered limb. Madeleine supposed that Javert might have tried to reach the pond, for Javert had seen him leave with the rod, after all. Had something happened and Javert had sought for him? Had perhaps help arrived at last, and was Javert looking for him even now with his man?

He did not make it to the pond before he heard the inspector's call for help. The shout was soft, and it came from where the rivulet widened as it flowed away from the cliff and the trees near their hut. Guilt rose within Madeleine as he wondered whether Javert had gone to look for him – had he told him that he intended to take his fishing rod to the pond, instead of down to where their rivulet ran towards the river, and where chance had brought him a meal of small, agile trout before?

But there was no time for guilt, or thought beyond the necessary, when he at last came towards where the brook widened, the gentle stream rushing quickly past slippery stones. Madeleine had passed this way before; now, a part of the river bank had slid down, carried away by the week's worth of rain that had soaked into the earth, and the fast-running stream that was now murky from the loam it carried with it.

Again he heard Javert's voice – it was very close now, and he could hear the pain and exhaustion in the hoarse cry. Carefully, he stepped forward, feeling the earth shift beneath him – it still held, but his heart beat loud and fast in his chest at the realization that any moment, it could carry him with it as well, and then both he and Javert might be lost, for while the water might not be deep here, the current ran fast and would dash his skull against the moss-covered rocks that rose from the rapids.

He called out for Javert. At the inspector’s pained answer from somewhere below him, he lowered himself to his stomach, crawling forward to where the earth had broken away, sweat beading on his brow at the way the loam beneath him shifted ever so slightly. When he reached the edge of the river, he found Javert dangling from a root beneath him, his face very pale, his eyes wide with pain and fear. Javert's mouth opened, but for a moment, no sound escaped. Then – 

“Monsieur. Leave. The bank will not hold.” 

Javert had visibly reached the end of what strength remained to him. The words were forced out amidst pained groans, and his hands that clutched at the root were white from the strain. 

Madeleine once more felt the weight of his past lowered onto his shoulders. Like iron chains, past misery was pulling at him, and here, once more, chance had opened up a road for him to walk in freedom, a way to set down this burden he carried on his back wherever he went, a tonic to rid himself of this nightmare in the guise of Inspector Javert once and for all.

Once already he had risked his own life to save him; even Javert himself warned him away now. It was not safe, and who would be helped by the death of two men instead of one; what would become of the town, the factory without him? 

For a moment, he saw the faces of the men and women working in his factory, the children that trailed after him, the way their eyes lit up when he would twist straw and coconuts into sudden, unexpected toys that would startle a smile even onto a small face wet with tears. He had done much good in Montreuil. He had done much -- but there was still so much left to do, so many children who went hungry, so many women who had to decide between buying wood for warmth or bread to feed their family. If he abandoned Javert here, he would be able to do more good – what was the life of one man who would as soon incarcerate a beggar than see him fed, weighed against the many souls that had come to depend on Madeleine?

In that moment, he felt the weight of his responsibility settle with great heaviness onto his already bent shoulders, until he felt that he would break, that certainly even his own strength was not enough to bear the weight of such a choice, that no man should be asked to make such a decision. Javert's labored breathing beneath him was loud and fast, the pants of a frightened hound rather than those of a man, and yet, while he still thought to himself of all the many good reasons that existed for why he should retreat and save his own life at least, he found himself moving forward inch by inch, until he was half thrust over the muddy, broken line of the bank, his hand reaching out to Javert below him.

“Monsieur. You shall fall!” Javert's words bade him retreat, but his eyes were wide with panic, his face a grimace of pain and exhaustion. Madeleine, who moved forward another fraction until he felt himself balanced as if on the point of a needle, aware with the certainty of a man who looked death into the eyes that if he moved another hair’s breadth, it would be enough and he would fall and find his own death there upon the slippery rocks below them, saw the road before him at last for what it truly was, as the weight on his shoulders turned to lead.

“Hold, Javert – do not give up!” he said. His voice was calm in his own ears, though within him, a storm had arisen. He could no longer hear the sound of the river below, or Javert's loud, pained breathing as he moved backwards. Again he thought to himself that he should leave, that Javert himself had granted him permission to abandon him here, that there was much good left to do for Madeleine, and while the storm kept roaring within him, bringing with it the scent of salt and seawater, he took off his shirt with great despair, twisted it together, and moved back towards the ledge once more, lowering it down to Javert.

The storm within him did not abate; it drowned out all thought, all fear, and when it left, there was a great, bleak silence within him. It was Madeleine who had thrown down the shirt to Javert as a rope, walking the only path he could see open before him, though he knew it led him back to the sea, where misery and the cry of gulls were the only companions of a man wearing the green cap. It was Valjean who now knelt at the edge of the riverbank, pulling up Inspector Javert of the police with all the unrivaled strength that had once earned him the name Jean-le-Cric, and he heard it whispered again in the back of his mind when those large hands wrapped around his wrists, the long fingers settling into the scars left by the shackles like old friends. It was this Jean Valjean, prisoner of nineteen long years, who did not cease until Javert rested whole and safe on the weak soil next to him; and when after a moment, Javert turned and released his arms, his face still pale and terrible from the death he had so narrowly escaped, it was Valjean too who bowed his head and trembled when that fearful gaze was fixed on him with a new purpose, and those fingers were laid into the scars on his back, and it seemed to him that above him, the sky receded, and the walls around him rose, and the long years of freedom and prosperity had been but a dream dreamed on that cold, hard cot in Toulon from which Javert had just awoken him. 

“How did you come by these?” Javert said, and Valjean was shocked into silence to still hear himself addressed as _vous_. Valjean remained silent; the terror was too great; he found he could not speak, and after a moment, Javert moved away a little, made another sound of pain, then grasped his wrists once more with the terrible quickness of the striking snake, taking them up in his large hands to behold the scars again, as surprised as Thomas to see the marks of the nails in the hands of Christ. 

Valjean did not know how they returned to the hut. If Javert had spoken to him, he could not recall it; all he knew was that Madeleine had left that hut, and the man who now returned was Jean Valjean, who was a convict, not a mayor, who had broken his parole and so would be returned to the galleys for life, who even now wanted to run, and yet who could not leave behind a man with a broken leg in a valley where there was no doctor and no help, and no way to leave even if Valjean himself should somehow contrive to escape past the swollen torrent that still made the ford unpassable.

He sat there inside the hut in silence for a long while. Hours might have passed; he prayed, at times, to fill the silent despair within him that the storm had left. At last, he looked up, and found Javert in turn regarding him, and there on his lips he saw a smile that terrified him, for it was the first time in all the years since the inspector had come to Montreuil that he had seen him express joy. 

“So,” Javert said, and Valjean shuddered again to hear that dreadful triumph. He did not give an answer; Javert continued without waiting for one. “So, it is as I thought. Javert, I have said to myself for so long, there is something very strange about this man who came from nowhere; who showed no papers; who denies all honors. To suspect authority, my superior – what a torment! And yet, a torment unavoidable, for you, _monsieur_ , in turn held no respect for authority, no respect for your office; you would throw away the honors of the king with the same disdain you showed me when I sought to keep order in the streets by arresting that woman of the town.”

Valjean raised his head very slowly to face Javert, his face pale, his eyes filled with terror. 

“I know you,” Javert continued, and a tremor ran through Valjean to once more hear that ghastly word _tu_ hurled his way, to hear himself addressed as one would a child, a beggar – a convict: that miserable creature chained and forgotten, not even fully human anymore in the eyes of all those unfortunate enough to encounter the chaingang. This sad creature was what had become of Jean Valjean once more during this long hour he had spent trembling beneath the terrible gaze of Inspector Javert, and for one who had spent many years among these unfortunate souls, perhaps no further proof would be needed than the misery that had now taken the place of the light that before had shone from the face of the man known as Madeleine.

“No more Monsieur le Maire. No more Madeleine. No; I have written to the prefecture, to tell them of my suspicions, well-aware that such a thing might cost me my position, or at least the good-will of my patron. But I knew you – and I know you now. Jean Valjean.” 

Javert spoke the words with a great, horrible pleasure. Valjean in turn flinched once, as if Javert had used a knife on him, and then sat silent and still once more.

Again Valjean's thoughts turned to flight. The water was high, the current fast; yet had he not a better chance of escape that way than what Toulon would grant him? Would it not, in fact, be preferable to die there in the water than to be returned to the galleys to wear the green, to know himself as no more than a beast in the eyes of society until his death? He stood; he paced; his steps took him to the door, and only when he opened it did a sound break through the deep misery that had taken hold of him. It was a sound of pain, and when he turned, his eyes settling with slow, deep weariness on the face of Javert, he found the inspector crouched on the pallet, his face livid and gleaming with sweat, the great brows drawn together as he panted, so visibly in pain that Valjean wondered whether the man had tried to stand and stop him from leaving the hut despite his injury.

For a long moment, Valjean remained there in the doorway, looking down at the man who would see him in irons, thinking once more of escape, for what better chance than the hand fate had dealt him, where the inspector could neither follow nor summon help until Valjean was long gone from these woods?

“I will fetch more beets,” was what he said, his voice low, and he did not wait for a reply before he left and closed the door behind himself.

#

The following morning, Javert insisted on accompanying Valjean outside into the garden. Valjean acquiesced, silent and lost in thoughts, as he had been since he had pulled the inspector from the riverbank and felt those fingers clamp around his wrists with the leaden heaviness of shackles. The night had been uncomfortable. Valjean had spent most of it awake, looking up into the darkness above him, feeling Javert close, disconcertingly warm during the cold night when it seemed to him that the inspector ought to be as silent and frigid as the salt-crusted stone of Toulon. 

He had not wanted to return to sleep by Javert's side; even with the fire burning out quickly during the evening, it had seemed to him unimaginable to share the bed of his jailer, his thoughts already returned to the bleak emptiness that would await him once the irons were clasped around his hands once more. It had been Javert who had seemed reluctant to let him out of his sight. Had Valjean been able to escape from the torrent of misery that had swept away what contentment he had found in the charity that had raised so many of the poor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, he might have argued that with Javert injured, there was nothing to keep him in the man's power regardless. But for that long day and night, his mind remained still, frozen with that great terror of beholding a fate that had shadowed him for so long, only to finally engulf him with large, terrible jaws to grind his body and soul to meal between the millstones of Toulon.

Yet in the light of day, such a darkness of the soul could not hold. On the tree-stump in the corner, Javert sat, grim and stern as he watched with a glower while Valjean pushed his bare hands into the sun-warmed loam, unearthing more beets as well as a rare yellow turnip as large as both of his fists. It would be enough to last them through the day, Valjean thought with humble gratitude, even if he should once more prove unsuccessful in his pursuit of the old wels.

At the thought of that large, slow shadow that continued to elude him, he looked up, and for the first time since he had taken off his shirt and felt fingers touch the scars captivity had left on his body, he met Javert's gaze with calmness. “Beets and a turnip,” he said, and although his voice was quiet, he did not tremble when those cold eyes settled on him with their terrible triumph once more. “Tomorrow we will have to look elsewhere for food. I do not think there is much left here – a few small cabbages below that bush. Maybe a few more beets and carrots if I keep searching. Not enough to last us for a week.”

Javert scowled. “I do not need much,” he said, then his lips twisted into another smile that reminded Valjean more of the snarl of a dog. But this dog was chained. This dog could not walk, could only glower at his prey, and if Valjean desired, he could walk away from the imprisonment the inspector's merciless eyes promised him. “No, and you had best get used to it, Jean Valjean. It shall not be the mayor's fare for you in the galleys. No housekeeper to serve Monsieur le Maire there. No fine coat, no silken cravat. No more lies from you.” 

Valjean brushed some of the earth from his trousers when he rose. He walked towards Javert, and though his step was slower than before, his head bowed like that of a man carrying a heavy burden, he placed his harvest in the inspector's lap, watching those large hands clench around the beets. He raised his head then and met Javert's gaze.

“I will go fish.” It was as simple as that. Those fingers might tighten around the vegetables in his lap, but there was nothing else Javert could do. Valjean reminded himself of that as he walked past him into the hut, cold sweat beading on his nape as he took hold of the fishing rod once more. Javert had no power over him. He needed but to brave the water to make his escape. The shackles had not yet closed around his wrists.

He ignored Javert's shout as he walked past him. A drop of sweat ran down his back, made him shiver. “I will be back before the evening,” he said, half-turning, keeping his eyes on the garden. Javert did not reply to that, and he walked on, his steps hastening until he had stepped past the house, safely hidden from that terrible gaze. There, he remained for a moment, bent forward, his shirt clinging to his back where cold sweat had soaked into the fabric. He breathed deeply, then straightened and forced himself onward. Only when he reached the pond did he fall to his knees and allow his tears to fall, clasping his hands in prayer although he did not dare to beseech God for his freedom. Instead, desperate, he recalled the man who had knelt before the Bishop's house in Digne for an entire night, become aware of his terribleness at last, and in his reawakened misery he remembered the little Savoyard, and how he had yet never managed to find Petit Gervais again, and despite the good he had tried to do in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the weight of that coin weighed more heavily on him still.

#

It rained again that afternoon. It was not the return of the storm that had seen them exiled to this valley, but nevertheless, the heavens were full of gray clouds that let loose the waters they contained until Valjean was soaked to the bone. Still he was unwilling to abandon his wait at the pool. The wels, he thought, had found a place to hide away; today there had not even been a hint of the slow-moving shadow, even though the rain was certain to provide the old fish with nourishment in the form of worms or small insects washed into the calm waters of its habitat.

He did not think of Javert, or the narrowness of the hut where all too soon he would once more be forced to find shelter with his jailer. Instead, he slowly walked down the small rivulet that led from the cliffside towards where in the distance, it would join the enraged river. Already he could hear the soft murmur of where the brook swelled, hastened, water thrown back and forth and crashing with increasing force against boulders – a little further yet, and the riverbank would rise, and then he would arrive at where he had pulled Javert to safety from certain death.

He stopped when he realized with sudden surprise that he had not asked Javert what had made him leave the garden on his own, or brought him so close to the river that the earth that had broken away had taken him with it. If Javert had been looking for him, he had not mentioned it again – on the other hand, and he accepted the knowledge as weary truth, Valjean was not deserving of such conversation in Javert's eyes now, and had no right to demand answers.

He was cold. The rain continued to fall; the clouds hung so low that they joined the pale mist that arose from the hills to his left. Everything was quiet but for the sound of the rain, and the low splashing of the river in the distance. He shivered once, like a horse beset by flies, and he could not have said whether it was to shake off the thought of Javert, or the rain that ran down his back. His misery grew as he realized that what little wood he had gathered would suffice to cook their small harvest, but would burn out long before the evening. Now, with the rain, there was little chance to find dry wood for the night. He remembered the unnatural heat of Javert's skin pressed against his own that first night, and flinched. He cast his hook with an abrupt motion and watched the ripples that ran out from where the bent nail with its bait had sunk into the water, shuddering again when he thought of the beets he had left in Javert's lap, and how he had pressed a slice of the vegetable to lips that were warm and soft and had exhaled hot air against his juice-stained fingers.

The night would be cold and miserable, but he would leave the inspector to his blanket and the pallet. He could sleep next to the fireplace; it would lack in comfort compared to the straw they had slept on so far, but certainly it would be better than to sleep next to a man who would return him to the galleys, who already saw little more in him than the beast he had made it his duty to chain.

He watched as the hook gleamed and bobbed, tugged forward by the gentle current. Perhaps he would return with perch today, or pike. Rain often brought forth fish hungry for the harvest of insects. His stomach clenched again, reminding him that it had been two days since he had tasted the white meat of the trouts they had roasted over their fire. It had tasted better than anything his housekeeper had prepared him; even now he could remember the juiciness of it, the crispness of charred skin, the fragrance of the fat beneath.

He remained at the small brook for long hours, although the rain continued to fall. When he finally made his way back towards the hut, the sun was already starting to sink; all he had gained in exchange for the day spent in cold, wet misery was a small perch the size of his hand. It was barely enough to feed two – yet his stomach clenched with hunger at the thought of the skin crisp from the fire, the meat white and fragrant from the garlic mustard that grew in abundance beneath the trees behind their hovel, a handful of which he had gathered and used to stuff the fish after gutting and cleaning it in the stream.

Javert, he found to his relief, had retired to the pallet. He was quiet when Valjean set to work, patiently building the fire with what little dry kindling remained, then roasting the fish over the flames while he cooked the beets and turnip in the worn old pot. He could feel the weight of Javert's gaze on his back, but he refused to turn and acknowledge the man’s presence until the skin of the perch was seared black. Slowly, with obvious reluctance, he made his way over to Javert. They did not meet each other's eyes, but after so many days subsisting on nothing but a handful of beets, hunger was distraction enough to keep them focused on the food instead of on what hung between them as they shared the meal. Silence was the best he could hope for from Javert; he tried not to wonder whether Javert would have offered his own help, had it been Valjean who broke his leg. Would Javert have fed the convict beets with his own hand? Something within him shuddered at the thought; there seemed to him something very wrong about the image of Javert's fingers stained red with the juices.

Once they had finished, Javert remained silent. Valjean thought of spreading himself out in front of the fire – his trousers and shirt were still wet, but already, with what had changed between them, he could no longer even contemplate the possibility of asking Javert for the use of the blanket for an hour or two, until his clothes had dried.

He looked at the fire that was already burning down, shivered at the way his clothes clung to his wet skin. He half turned to Javert, to see if he seemed inclined to argue again, or to gloat at the truth that had finally been unveiled - but Javert was still silent, sat slightly bent forward, his forehead creased, a weary hand at his brow as though his neck alone could not bear the weight of his skull anymore. Valjean felt a sharp, petty satisfaction at first. Let Javert suffer from pain and weariness; at least such a thing would grant him a quiet night on the floor near the fireplace, without listening to insult, or a list of his sins, when the mere thought of curling up on the ground like a dog made him shudder and think of the dog-kennel he had once been driven from. He knew the fate that awaited him once more, had accepted it with a certain, helpless fatality, but nevertheless his heart trembled in his chest every time he dared contemplate the wretch he had been, and the wretch he would become once more.

Javert had remained silent, and when Valjean raised his head after a long moment to meet his eyes, he found them dark and unfocused again, his brow glistening with perspiration. Valjean felt his misery rise. Even the thought of being close to Javert was abhorrent. He had not hated since he had spent that long, dark night on his knees before the door of Monseigneur Bienvenu, but now, looking at Javert, it was difficult to think of his injuries, the possibility of his death, and not feel a soft tremor of hope unfolding in his heart.

He could not bear to clamp down on it, to prune that small branch from the boughs of his heart. The thought of the inspector's death raised no remorse within him, and yet, almost as if another force had moved him, he found himself on his knees in front of Javert, pressing his fingers to the man's brow. Once more, Javert was too warm to the touch, and Valjean exhaled with quiet exhaustion. He did not search his heart for hate; whether he hated Javert or not did not matter. There was hate within him for this task he was forced to perform, this care some power compelled him to give to this man who seemed more statue than human, more an automaton of painted tin exhibited at a fair than a soul capable of pain, or fear, or compassion. And yet, despite his quiet surrender to the fate that once more seemed to open before him as a black, bottomless abyss, he stood, sullen maybe, but without hesitation, and he took the pot to the river and scoured it before he filled it with clear water and pine needles and more of the nettles. 

What remained of the fire’s heat was barely enough to bring it to a boil, but still, it sufficed, and once it had cooled he helped Javert to sip the infusion. Javert tried to push him away once, but he was too weak, his limbs useless from the fever that had arisen once more, so that Valjean was forced to draw him against his chest to keep him upright as he helped him to swallow more of the tea. The dark tendril of hate was still there, unfurling within his heart as he looked down at the pale, sweat-beaded brow of the man who had already ceased to see him as human, to whom he knew he was little more than an escaped, wild beast, the wolf about to be leashed and chained once more. But Javert did not talk, Javert closed his eyes, and if he, too, hated, Valjean could find no trace of it on his face. The absence should have been reassuring; instead, it made the inspector only more terrifying, and Valjean shuddered once more as he helped him lie down, as he undressed them both with hesitant hands, as he felt the lanky body press against him with the animal need for warmth, fever making the inspector's teeth shatter, so that he pulled the old blanket more tightly around them.

If Javert did not hate, then he was truly as inhuman as he had seemed. Hate, Valjean thought, was an emotion he had grown to understand, had been forced to live and breathe and gorge on until his soul and flesh had become tainted and rotten with a dull anger that seemed to have no beginning, no end. He had been wronged, and so he hated. It had been easy to understand a world that had held nothing but hurt then.

But who was this man who felt glee at returning him to such a state, who had straightened with fierce pride when he spoke his name, _Jean Valjean_ , and who yet could do so with no hate in his heart? Hate he understood, although the memory of it made his soul ache, like an old wound that still remembered the knife where he had once cut out the canker from his own heart. A man who would return him to hate, on the other hand, feeling no hatred of his own but simply the satisfaction of being right – this Valjean failed to understand, and the steadily beating heart of Javert against his own chest gave him no answer either. The heat of Javert's breath against his throat proclaimed his humanity; the way he would cringe and groan softly in his sleep when he tried to move his leg seemed to urge Valjean to compassion, and yet, despite all appearances, he knew that Javert's heart was little more than a mirage in a desert luring the lost wanderer to his death. There was nothing to be won from giving succor to Javert – and still, at the same time, as he gave in to his exhausted body's demands for rest, he drew him closer just before he sank beneath the heaviness of sleep, his cold, taut muscles relaxing to embrace the heat of Javert with something that was almost gratitude.


	4. Chapter 4

Valjean woke to the steady drum of rain against the roof of their hut and the warmth of Javert, tall body relaxed in sleep and pressed against his own in an unconscious attempt to soak up as much of his heat as possible. For one long moment, still lost in that hazy state between dream and reality, Valjean listened to the sound of the rain and Javert's soft breathing, registered the curl of fingers against his arm, the coarseness of Javert's whiskers pressed to his cheek, the irritating sensation of a long strand of graying hair that had fallen across his own face and now was moving ever so slightly with every breath he took.

He was still tired, and very hungry. There had been no more fish since they had shared the perch he had caught three days ago. He had found only one small turnip yesterday when he went through the parts of the garden where he had already harvested vegetables to dig through the soil again with his bare hands in increasing despair. It had been enough to silence the worst pangs of hunger, but not for long; now, once more he felt that hollow, aching emptiness that had been a constant companion in his youth. It seemed a strange twist of fate to share this with his captor, although Javert had not said much when he had returned with the small turnip, and they had both filled their bellies with the pine tea instead.

He hardly dared to breathe. Javert was still asleep; with some luck, he could extricate himself from his embrace, and rise and go out towards where he had once caught the trouts. They needed to eat; if anything, hunger would only make the situation even more unbearable. He knew what hunger did to men, and while Javert was no danger to him, he was already injured, and in pain. He needed sustenance to heal; and more and better food than cooked nettles. Again Valjean thought of the ford – he visited it every day, though he did not mention it to Javert, who was forced to remain in the hut; without a doubt staring at the thin walls with a frightful glower. Maybe soon, there would come a day when he might manage to cross; maybe with the help of a fallen tree, maybe with–

Javert moved slightly when Valjean tried to pull his arm away. There was a soft sound, a little like a grunt, that made him frown with the fear that he had jarred Javert's broken bone. But Javert did not move, did not open his eyes, and after a moment, Valjean became aware of a warm, hard shape resting against his thigh. He froze. For long heartbeats, he could think of nothing, could only feel what could not be. Suddenly, the sensation of Javert's warm breath against his throat took on a different quality, as did the arm resting against his chest, the slight itch of the whiskers brushing his skin. Suddenly, the warmth beneath the blanket was stifling, the weight of Javert nearly unbearable, and for a moment once more his thoughts returned to Toulon, where stone and iron turned men into beasts, where men like Javert might have learned– 

Another sound escaped Javert. This time, the sound was unhappy, his brow furrowed, and Valjean, frozen, entranced, watched his lips part. His breathing grew shallow and fast, then Javert tried to move, and at last that hardening presence between them no longer pressed against his thigh, and he could think more clearly. He forced himself to breathe deeply. Javert's head had come to rest against his shoulder. His breathing was still shallow, his eyelids twitched, but Javert had not woken, nor had he pressed himself against him again.

Valjean reached out, then hesitated again for another long moment before he gently gripped Javert's shoulder. His skin was warm, and a little damp, but not flushed with fever. This was still Javert, he reminded himself. Javert, who took a terrible triumph in the fall of the mayor, who without a doubt would gloat to see him behind bars – but the same Javert who would not force himself on a prisoner. He had much to fear from Javert, but certainly not that. He pushed a little, careful not to wake Javert just yet if it could be avoided; with a small mumble he could not make out, Javert rolled over onto his side and took the blanket with him.

Valjean swallowed when Javert's bare back was revealed to him. Where he knew his own skin to be a furrowed field where the lash had found fertile soil to rip into, Javert's skin was unblemished, smooth apart from what scratches and bruises the storm and his fall had earned him, though Javert was lean enough that his spine pressed against the skin, a line of shadowed knobs and indentations trailing downward, luring his gaze into following that line until he found himself flushed and aghast and quickly turned away, no matter that only a short time ago, he had washed Javert's bare body. Suddenly, that memory brought the rush of shame with it, as did the memory of the heat of Javert's skin pressed against his own, the intimacy of hot breath against his skin, a heart beating against his chest.

Quickly, he stood, and drew the blanket up to cover Javert once more. Javert had ceased moving; even the sound of his breathing had grown regular and quiet. Valjean did not dare to move for a moment – Javert was awake, he thought with sudden, inexplicable dread, Javert was awake and...

A moment passed, and then another, and still Javert did not move, and only then did Valjean begin to wonder whether Javert felt the same overwhelmed embarrassment. It did nothing to soothe his nerves. Of course, he told himself, still giving the shape of Javert a wide-eyed look, he could hardly blame him for the reactions of his body while Javert himself had been asleep; and yet, to have felt him, to know the feeling of that thickening length pressed to him, hot and hard... His thoughts skittered away, he could not think; the hut was too narrow, the air stifling, and the thought that Javert might lie awake beneath the blanket, mortified by his body's betrayal, maybe, but still aroused...

He only barely managed to swallow the strangled sound that threatened to escape, and dressed as quickly as he could, no longer even pretending to move quietly so as not to disturb Javert's sleep. His heart hammered in his chest as he grabbed the fishing rod before he left, and he closed the door behind himself without turning to see whether Javert had opened his eyes after all to admit that he had woken.

#

When he returned damp and miserable in the evening, he found Javert equally miserable. There were wet patches on his shirt and trousers, as if he had tried to wash the mud from it, and Valjean's gaze went towards the fireplace – but the small fire Javert had kindled had been used to cook more tea of nettles and pine, so that his stomach clenched with hunger. If Javert had made his way out into the garden to search for more food, he had not been successful. Valjean settled down heavily on a rickety stool near the fire. It would be dark soon, he thought miserably. He could return to the pool and try his luck yet again – maybe the large, old fish would come out at dusk, or maybe he would at least manage to catch another small trout or perch, anything...

Javert's face was stone, though pain and exhaustion had painted new lines around his eyes. “I looked for more beets; I found none. Well, you will not mind, I am certain. In any case, once you are returned to the galleys you will have your regular meals provided for you. That should make your future more palatable.”

Valjean watched with quiet exhaustion. Where before, the specter of Toulon had arisen with full force to take hold of him, thrusting his mind back once more into that dullness of despair from which he had been delivered only by the mercy of the Bishop, now the memory of that terrible place where the souls of men were left to rot and collect mildew like the stones of the cells was as far removed from him as the home of his childhood. Indeed, despite the scarcity of food or the humbleness of their abode, their circumstance had returned some of the spirits of that young pruner to him, so that even now, with hunger gnawing at him and the path of his future leading him back towards iron and despair, he could not help but draw a certain vigor from the sight of raindrops collecting on quivering leaves of green, the croaks of toads during the night, the scent of the soil when he buried his hands in it as he searched for what vegetables might yet be hidden in the overgrown garden. He was no longer a young man, but neither was he Madeleine any more, that man who had chosen to leave all of his past behind to become a man forever hunted by the shadows of his own fear.

Now, he was Jean Valjean once more, and that, as terrifying as it had been that first day, appeared as a strange freedom to him. Javert might sneer when he spoke his name, but all the same, at last there were no more secrets: no more scars to hide, no more shadows to fear. As long as he and Javert remained in this valley, parted from all that awaited them by the roar of the swollen river, there seemed little to be gained from spending his days awaiting with terror what was to follow. Their needs were simple: food, warmth, water. And it was easier now to remember the youth he had been, who had known nothing but those needs, and the growth of trees in spring, the harvest in autumn, the illicit thrill of the hunt.

His eyes moved over Javert more freely. “I can fetch more water, so you can wash,” he said, and although he was not surprised to see Javert deny the offer, he felt some different, new emotion grow within him when Javert could only hold his gaze for a moment before his eyes skidded away. Maybe, Valjean thought, the day's cold misery had reminded Javert that with his broken leg, he was dependent on Valjean's mercy. That had to sit ill with the proud inspector; no wonder Javert had braved the garden in the rain, despite his injury. Pride made men do many a foolish thing; and Javert was the sort of man who would try to cross the swollen river on his broken leg if pride demanded it.

The image woke a different thought. “Why did you go out?” he asked. “When you were nearly washed away by the river. I have never known you to be careless.”

Javert remained silent for a long moment; he pressed his lips tightly together, so that they appeared bloodless, as pale as his skin. After another moment passed, he looked up, and this time held Valjean's gaze. “I saw wood down there. Planks from the bridge, one of the wheels from the carriage – and what might have been a coffer.”

“Ah.” Valjean did not look away, and after a moment, Javert raised a hand to wipe at the moisture that gleamed on his face. Valjean wondered whether it was sweat or rain; he did not think that this time Javert would allow him to feel for a fever. “You do not need to fear me,” he said at last. Javert scoffed and turned away, careful to move his leg with both hands as he tried to find a more comfortable position on the pallet. “You must have thought to find your pistol? Even without it, you are in no danger from me.”

Javert remained silent, and Valjean looked again at the small pot that held nothing but tea, which would do little to fill his empty stomach. Once more his eyes returned to Javert. “Two times, I have held your life in my hands,” he said, a soft reminder which he knew would go unheeded. “With or without a weapon, you are safe with me. I will go out again.”

Once more Javert remained silent, but he had not truly expected an answer. Instead, he left misery behind in that small hut with Javert for another glorious hour, watched how the sinking sun colored the clouds in the bright colors of summer flowers: orange, magenta, rose, all of it at last fading to a blue that deepened until soon, the night would swallow all colors, and it would be dark. He returned with a small armful of damp pine branches, found beneath the low-hanging limbs of the trees that lined the incline they had struggled up that first, terror-filled night. The branches were damp, but not too wet to burn, and soon he had coaxed another small fire in the fireplace, drank more of the tea for supper, and then, with barely veiled reluctance, even though Javert laid still and silent, obviously only pretending to be asleep, joined him on the pallet for another night of misery and the ache of his empty stomach.

#

The next morning, for once it was Javert who woke first, and Valjean pretended to still be asleep while Javert turned slowly away from him, taking great care not to move his broken leg too much. Valjean waited until Javert had sat up, and then quickly sat as well to escape from the awkwardness of Javert's bared chest revealed by where the blanket had slipped from him. The sight disturbed him in ways he could not explain: it brought with it strange memories of warmth, and the confusing intimacy of having grown to know the scent of Javert's unwashed skin. He recoiled inwardly – to think of warmth and comfort now, when he could see nothing but despair look back at him from uncaring eyes, and feel the iron shackles in the touch of those large hands!

A shudder ran through him; he averted his eyes, confused and distressed, and rose to quickly dress once more in his clothes that had dried by the fire. The sound of the rain had stopped. Maybe that meant that today, he would catch another fish. Maybe chance would grant them a bird's nest with eggs for him to bring back, or maybe he would stumble across a small pool somewhere between the trees where he might succeed in catching frogs in his shirt. His stomach clenched with hunger at the thought. He reached out for his fishing rod once more; when he turned to leave, he saw that Javert was watching him, his eyes unreadable, although his brows were tightly drawn together, and he held himself stiff and straight.

For one moment, Valjean thought of how difficult it would be for Javert to stand and move around, how he would need help to go into the garden, how he was in need of clean water to wash... The memory of the gleaming droplets of water running down Javert's stomach when he had been forced to wash him that first day made him flinch now, and he averted his eyes. “I will return with food today,” he said, and did not wait for an answer, although he doubted that there would be one, even had he stayed and offered his help.

Outside, the sun had risen high enough to crest the hills, so that the small garden shone verdant and lush in the sunlight. Even the bare patches of soil where they had so unsuccessfully searched for what remaining roots the earth might have kept hidden from them suddenly no longer recalled the desperation of their hunger, but rather woke old memories of sowing and planting, and watching seedlings grow into leafy vegetables that could keep families well-fed through an entire, long winter.

He chose to return to the spot where the riverbank had washed away, after recalling Javert's words from the preceding day. Javert might have seen nothing but a few remains of the bridge, but if he had been right, it might mean a pistol, and that might mean, with some luck, a deer, or at least a brace of grouse. It might also a mean a weapon to keep safe from Javert, but he carefully chose not to linger on that thought. In the worst case, wooden planks would make good firewood, unless they were resting in the water, and if there were indeed remains of their coffers to be found, perhaps they would at least be blessed with a spare shirt – or a blanket, his mind supplied, so that they no longer would have to share the pallet.

When he made it to the part of their valley where the brook turned into a swiftly flowing river, after half an hour of stumbling through nettles and brambles with increasing frustration, he at last reached a part of the riverbank where small bushes and a fallen tree provided enough grip for him to slowly make his way down towards the rushing water. Javert had been right. Now that he saw the remains of wood that had washed against a boulder near where he had been forced to pull Javert up, hope rose within him, despite the pangs of hunger. It was not a wheel – it was indeed part of a small coffer, but his hope for a weapon was soon dashed, once he managed to come close enough by balancing on the slippery rocks. There was a book in it, nearly unrecognizable now after it had spent several days in the water, but the shape and color was familiar. That was his bible, and there, drifted against another rock, was one of his shirts. He spent another hour trailing along the edge of the river as much as was possible, for the water ran ever faster, and not always were there bushes or rocks, but there was no pistol to be found, no trousers or blankets or even salvageable wood. 

He spent more hours casting his bait in the slow water of the eddy behind the large, moss-covered boulders, focusing on the gleam of his nail as it sank towards the ground with the single-minded desperation of one who had not eaten for so long that he felt tired and weak from lack of sustenance. He did not pray, although he thought once more of the meal he had been served in Digne. He thought of Javert too, and felt revulsion and despair, and then bent his head and barely knew how to hold back his tears when he remembered the word _brother_. He wanted to leave Javert. He wanted rather to take his chance with the swollen stream than to return to that narrow pallet, those cold, accusing eyes. He would not run and abandon Javert; he would send help, alert the first man he came across that the inspector was alone and injured...

He pulled in his nail, knowing from the weight of the line alone that yet again, no fish had bitten. His stomach clenched; he buried a wet hand in his hair in desperation. His reflection looked back at him from the river. It was not Madeleine, who had watched him from mirrors for so long; Madeleine, who had done much good, and yet had never been able to return one small coin to a young Savoyard. It was the man who had taken that coin who looked back at him from emotionless eyes now, that wretch with his dirty, unshaven face and uncombed hair. Almost he dropped his rod into the water from the shock of suddenly seeing his true self revealed to him once more. His fingers trembled as he realized that it was not the past that stared at him, but his future. Montreuil-sur-Mer had been but a dream, a few years of stolen hope, and it was a theft for which Javert would see him harshly punished, for it was from Javert he had stolen these years, from the state, and had sought to give this time to those Javert deemed undeserving.

His thoughts once more returned to the hospital: there was the matter of Fantine, who even now might be taking her last breaths, and her daughter. There was the factory; so many of the women with children of their own that would go without food if Javert had his way. There were his plans for the school–

He dropped his hand into the water, erasing the image of the convict, and with it his chance at one of the fishes that might have lain in wait here in the eddy. So entrenched in his own misery was he that he barely saw where he was going as he scrabbled upwards, clutching at slippery roots and loose stones, slipping and falling at times, and that by the time he made it back up onto the riverbank, he was covered in mud. For a long moment, he remained there on his knees and tried to gather his breath. His stomach clenched again; perhaps, he thought once more with growing despair, if he returned to the pool...

But the hope of the large wels catfish seemed as distant and out of reach now as his years as Madeleine. He could gather more nettles; or there was ramps growing along the spruce trees to his right – this late in the year, the leaves were bitter and tough, but he revived a little at the thought of digging for their roots. Wild onions would give flavor even to another meal of boiled nettles; maybe, just maybe, he would yet come across an injured bird somewhere, a shallow pond where he might succeed in catching a pair of frogs – maybe, if he scaled one of the trees behind their hut, he would find that in the highest branches, the apples had started to ripen...

There was a fallen conifer before him. Most of the tree had rotted away, but its roots jutted out towards him like spindly, broken fingers. And on those roots, he realized with stunned disbelief, small clumps of mushrooms grew. Valjean felt weak with hunger and the sudden surge of hope. His fingers trembled when he fell to his knees in front of the tree, dropping his rod carelessly onto the carpet of dead leaves. He broke off one of the clumps – at least a dozen small mushrooms of a pale orange grew clustered together, and when he exhaled in joy – conifer tufts, and not only one cluster, but several of them! – it nearly came out as a sob. Suddenly his earlier vigor had returned, and he pulled off his shirt, and carefully broke off clump after clump, filling his shirt with enough of the mushrooms that he thought they might eat of them for another day or two. Then, when he tried to make his way towards where the dark green leaves of the ramps called for him with their distinctive odor, he was suddenly distracted by further spots of gold beneath the trees. This time, when he fell to his knees in speechless awe, as penitent and filled with worship as he had ever been at mass, he found chanterelles, growing sparsely here and there beneath the spruces, and he filled his shirt until he wanted to weep from relief and hunger. Today, they would not go to bed hungry. Today and tomorrow, at least, they would have food, and perhaps tomorrow at last, they might be found.

For the first time, he returned to the hut with haste, all discomfort at Javert's presence forgotten as he bore his shirt full of mushrooms and wild onions, thinking only of the pot and the fire and the stew they might fashion from that. When he approached the hut, a shout made him halt in his tracks – the voice belonged to Javert, and yet, he realized, his heart beating fast in his chest all of a sudden from what had to be fear, for the first time, he thought he heard his name – _Valjean_ , the name of that wretch! – called with excitement. As he slowly turned, he found that the inspector had managed to make his way to a hollow completely overgrown by tall grass and weeds, near to where the brook was gently flowing away from where it sprang from the cliffside, and was now frantically waving for him to come closer. Javert knelt amidst the tall grass, and when Valjean came up to him, Javert's lips parted to reveal his teeth in what took Valjean a moment to realize was a smile, not a snarl.

“Look!” Javert said, then again, more fiercely, strangely breathless as if excitement made him want to laugh and he had forgotten how, “Look!” From his position on the ground, he thrust his hands towards Valjean, and there, cradled in the large palms that had closed around his wrists with iron cruelty only a few days ago, five large snails rested.

“Ah, if we had butter,” Valjean said, stunned and equally breathless, and reached out, touched those fingers that glistened with the trails of the snails. At that touch, he shuddered, and looked at Javert instead of the snails, and found that Javert was watching him as well, silent, speechless.

Valjean's fingers trembled when he pulled them back. A trail of the snails' mucus clung to him, hung glistening in the light of the afternoon sun between their fingers for a long moment, and he could not have said why the sight made him flush and lower his eyes with confusion. It would not last, he told himself, still stunned and uncomfortable. Once they had eaten, once another day without food had passed, all excitement caused by the food would be forgotten, and Javert would return to glower at him with grim satisfaction.

When Javert spoke, his voice was strangely throaty; he had to cough, and even then he seemed to speak more softly than usual. “There are more. Escargots, Valjean. We will dine on escargots today, and I tell you, even without any butter, your housekeeper could not make a finer meal than what we will have today.”

At his words, Valjean lowered the shirt to show Javert the treasure he carried, the orange brown of the conifer tufts, the golden chanterelles, the handful of wild onions. Javert laughed with stunned disbelief, and for the first time, Valjean thought that he saw true, human happiness fill those eyes that had always seemed to judge him with the coldness of stone.

“Well!” Javert said, still eying the shirt as if he could not believe the treasure Valjean had found in the forest. “Well! Go and start a fire! I will not be long; they seem to be drawn to this hollow, it must be the moisture from the brook – I will come soon, and with another handful of them, and then we shall dine on mushrooms and escargot!”

#

For once, Valjean woke to a feeling of languorous happiness. Nothing ached; instead he was filled by a pleasant warmth, his stomach full, resting on a comfortable pallet against the body that he had unconsciously come to know as a source of heat in his sleep during their nights in this valley.

How long had it been? Still half-lost in dreams, he wondered if it had truly been but a week, for it felt almost like months had passed in such a way: the scent of Javert's skin had become so familiar, the softness and weight of his hair against his shoulder a sensation that no longer startled him but was instead as familiar and expected as the itch where sideburns brushed his cheek. Relaxed in sleep, the company of the inspector was not so hard to bear, he thought hazily, and then sighed softly and stretched, only to freeze with dismay. Today, it was his own body that had been lured into a state of arousal by the warmth and comfort he had woken to. For a long moment, he kept perfectly still, concentrating on keeping his breathing even. All of a sudden, the warmth of Javert was stifling heat; it was hard to breathe, and he yearned for the cool morning air that he knew awaited him outside, or the cold water of the pool to wash the sweat and dirt from his body.

Very slowly, he got up. Javert did not move, and he could not bring himself to listen to his breathing to make certain that he had truly remained asleep. It was difficult to will his body into obedience; the cold air when he slipped out from underneath the blanket helped a little, as did the sickening feeling of dread in his stomach at the thought of what Javert's reaction would be to such a thing. Quickly, he slipped on his trousers, then his shirt; when he turned, Javert still seemed asleep, and so he all but fled from the cabin, making his way to the end of the valley to look at the ford once more, careful to keep his thoughts focused only on the river, and on what food they might find for the day.

He returned after an hour with another large handful of wild garlic. For a moment, he eyed what remained of the stew of escargot and mushrooms in the pot. It would be enough to make certain that they did not go to bed hungry, but all the same, the memory of curling up hungry and miserable was still vivid in his mind, and so he decided to try his luck with the trout once more, or search for more of the chanterelles beneath the conifers in case no fish would bite.

Javert watched without speaking as he put the garlic onto the table. The strange almost-exuberance of the previous day had made way for a thoughtful silence – but unlike before, the food and the restful night and the knowledge that no matter what Valjean might find today, there was still enough stew left to see them go to bed content had smoothed some of the sharp lines away, and when Javert frowned, it now seemed more genuine puzzlement than suspicion.

“I will try to go for the trouts again,” Valjean said, his voice quiet. He did not smile at Javert – he did not think he could, for what walls had been torn down briefly by the food yesterday had grown anew over night, though they seemed thinner now, less frightening. No more they seemed the walls of a prison that stood between them, but simply an old fence, sturdy and tall, as might part one garden from another – maybe even something that could, in the light of the sun, see the clasping of hands of neighbors – Valjean had to turn his head away at that image, and chide himself for a fool. No, better to expect no neighborly sentiments from Javert. And yet, for now they were both prisoners – or both equally free in this valley. Though it might not last, it would do no harm to use their days to think about food and fire instead of future misery.

“I will go and wash first – shall I take your shirt?”

Javert smoothed his hand awkwardly down his thigh. The fabric was still stained from his foray into the little hollow where he had found the snails, but when Valjean imagined having to help Javert to take off the trousers that they had slashed so that they fit over the makeshift brace, his throat grew dry, and he found he could not talk. 

He bowed his head, then pretended to see how much of the wood was left for a fire.

“I will wash it later.”

He nodded at Javert's answer, then took up the fishing rod as well, hesitating for a moment – he could not think of something to say, although he wondered whether perhaps Javert was waiting for him to speak. Javert was not looking at him, but seemed strangely tense, without the fury or the gloating pride he had displayed before.

At last, Valjean nodded and left, not quite certain what to do now that something seemed to have changed between them. Maybe, he thought as he settled down by the pool, maybe Javert had thought about his words and realized that he spoke the truth. Two times he could have seen Javert dead, two times he had chosen to save his life by endangering his own instead. Could there be trust between them? He was not certain, and if indeed trust was beginning to grow, a tender, vulnerable green shoot, then certainly it would not survive being uprooted and taken from this valley.

Still, for now it was relief enough to have there be no outright hostility, not when they were forced to share a blanket at night.

His trousers joined the shirt on the rocks that lined the pool, as did his boots. He had seen no sign of the wels when he arrived; it was more promising to go for the trouts further down the stream later. But the pool was deep enough for him to step inside and wash himself, and there was something about the coldness of the water that he cherished, especially now that the sun had come out once more, warming his shoulders.

He dunked his head beneath the water, sputtering when he came up again – ah, it was _cold_! There was a smile on his face despite the way the water made him shiver, and almost he seemed to remember early summer days, the cold water of a river, chasing his sister back to their house... 

He shook his head, as much to shed the distant memories as the cold water that still dripped from his hair. Quickly, he scrubbed himself with his hands to get rid of the dirt and the sweat that clung to him after the previous day's adventures in the forest; the coldness of the water raised goosebumps on his skin, and yet he forced himself to remain there in the pool, drinking in the sensation of sunlight on his back, clear water against his thighs, with no sound but the song of birds in the distance and the gentle murmur of the water running from a fissure in the rocky wall to disturb his thoughts. All of this he was about to lose: all of this, which should be any man's right – fresh water, cold air, sunlight on his skin, a day stretching before him to be used as he desired – would be taken from him, and how much harder to return to that dreadful state of mindless animal when his soul had been awoken to see with great revulsion the wretch he had become in such a place before? 

He looked up into the sun, remaining motionless for a long moment. He breathed deeply. Air filled his chest; sunlight warmed his skin; droplets of cold water ran down his body. Here in this valley, he owned nothing but that which nature gave him freely, and even that was about to be taken from him, until sunlight, the wind, the song of birds became a rare commodity, only to be experienced with the drag of the chain on his ankle. Again he thought of the ford which he might soon be able to cross on his own if there was no further rain. Again he thought of Javert, how that fearsome face had been filled by a terrible joy as he spoke his name, _Jean Valjean_ – but also, following that memory now came another, Javert shouting _Valjean_ in spontaneous, true joy, that moment their fingers touched when he showed him the snails, and he remembered the weight of that moment when he held Javert by the hand, when the storm was loud around them like the cannons of war, when Javert's death would have been a death on the battlefield of nature, not a burden for his soul to carry...

Wearily, he rubbed at his face. No, he could not have acted any differently, could have made no other choice then, and whatever would come from that, he would bear. Another drop of water fell from his hair, ran down his back, and he shuddered and shook himself like a horse shaking off a fly – and then stilled with sudden tension.

Had there been a sound? It seemed to him that he had seen movement from the corner of his eye, but now that he looked around, all was silent except for the sound of the water and the birds. The trees and bushes moved slightly from the wind that stirred the leaves, but he could see no other movement. More water ran down his back; the cold water lapped at his thighs, and suddenly he felt strangely exposed.

After another moment had passed, he left the water. Now, a bird took flight from a bush to his left, and he took a deep breath, and then laughed at the way tension suddenly fell off him. A bird – and of course, what else would it be? He had allowed dark thoughts of Toulon to take over, but there were no chains to be found for him in this valley, only the song of birds.

Once he had dressed, the day's warmth was so pleasant after the coldness of the water that his steps led him back to their hut instead of to where chance had granted him a catch of trouts before. He half thought he would regret this change of mind, for Javert was still Javert, but the bright sunshine and the gentle breeze suddenly made the thought of Javert alone and abandoned in the hut weigh on him with heaviness. Again he thought of Javert's gratitude at the food they had found, and of his strange, tense hesitancy this morning.

Javert might never change, but perhaps he would at least accept his help so that Valjean might lead him to where he had gathered the snails before, or accept an offer to fetch him water so that he could clean himself or wash his clothes while Valjean was out at the river for the remainder of the day. Certainly there was civility enough for that at least between them now.

There was no sound that could have warned him.

Later, he would remember again how he thought that he had seen movement when he had washed himself in the pool, how he thought that the sound he had heard had been caused by a bird. But at that moment, when he walked out from beneath the conifers to see their hut and the small, overgrown orchard behind it, nothing had prepared him for the sight that awaited him: Javert standing in the play of shadow and light beneath the apple tree, braced against the trunk with one arm while the other was thrust into his open trousers, his face a grimace of–

Pleasure. Pleasure, Valjean realized, rooted to the spot, suddenly unable to breathe. Heat rushed through him, he felt as if he must have flushed from head to toe – that was Javert, Javert was... His mind could not put the act into words, although it was unmistakable, Javert's face twisted in an expression that was almost torment, sweat beading on his brow, his lips slightly parted, his chest heaving with every breath he took while his hand–

Ah, _Christ_! Valjean knew he should look away, but for that one moment he could not move, could not think, could not take his eyes away. Javert's trousers gaped open; he had pushed them down just far enough to reveal coarse black hair, and jutting out of that wild growth was his prick, heavy and fully erect and dark with blood as his fingers clenched around it, as he worked himself with quick, rough strokes, his panting coming faster now, almost despairing, and then –

Valjean could never say whether he had moved or made a sound despite himself, but suddenly, Javert's eyes were open, and they looked at each other for the duration of one shocked heartbeat, and then Valjean looked away, so hot with shame that he could not speak, could not even apologize, that image burned into his mind: Javert's prick, thick and hard, the copious amount of hair surrounding it, the tip flushed and wet as Javert's hand moved up and down, pulling on himself with desperate jerks that looked both rough and unskilled. 

His own breathing seemed too loud to him all of a sudden, the panting of an animal rather than a man; his blood roared in his ears; his skin was afire with shame. Should he apologize? Could one apologize for such a thing? Ah, to – to put such an act into words, to be forced to taste in his mouth a description of what he had observed Javert do – even the thought of it made his tongue feel as large and heavy as a rock, and he swallowed desperately, tried to force out an apology after all, though he could not even hear himself speak, and then turned and went away. Almost he stumbled over his own feet as he forced himself not to run, his hands shaking, unable to see where he was going because the image he saw with horrifying clarity was still that of Javert's cock, thick and proud, jutting up from coarse, wild hair, and he thought again of how he had woken with Javert relaxed against him, his breath warm against his throat, and that same prick pressed heavy and hot to his thigh while Javert slept on.

His fingers were still shaking when he cast his line. He barely saw where the nail fell, kept pulling it from the water and casting his bait again throughout the day with mechanical motions, his mind shuddering away again and again from the memory he could not help but return to with horror and shame, and although at last he was able to make his way back to their hut with two trouts even larger than those he had caught before, he could feel no excitement, only dread, as if he were the one who should feel shame instead of Javert.


	5. Chapter 5

There was more fish the next day; and the day after that, Valjean returned in the evening with wild onions and a shirt full of blueberries and blackberries and a handful of conifer tufts. Once more he entered the hut without a catch, but for once, Javert awaited with an already half-plucked duck he had managed to entrap, although there was none of the enthusiasm that had accompanied the handful of snails.

Things were different between them now – it was not simply embarrassment, although Valjean hardly knew how to keep himself from flushing with the memory of what he had observed, every time he glanced at Javert's hands. Javert was very quiet. There had been a few times when Valjean thought that Javert was about to speak, but always he kept his silence, and where before he had looked at him with triumph at times, there was now a strange restlessness; his eyes would return to Valjean again and again only to move away just as quickly – yet always they were drawn back once more in the end. A few times, Valjean managed to catch a glimpse of his face when Javert thought himself unobserved, and what he saw there was unsettling for Valjean as well, for where before, Javert had been stone, where his eyes had been filled by a void where no mercy could exist, now some of the harsh lines had softened, and the frown that marred his face was bewildered, as if he spent every waking hour pondering a puzzle he could not solve.

It suited Valjean that they did not talk. He hardly knew what to say when they would eat together in the evenings. To sleep beneath the same blanket was torment now, and he had started to go for a late walk under the pretense that a fish might bite at dusk, in the hope that Javert would pretend to be already asleep beneath the blanket when he returned, so that he could slip onto the pallet quietly, turn away from Javert, and try to ignore the heat of his body and the sound of his breathing, while his mind tormented him once more with what he now knew was hidden beneath the blanket: that thick cock, the copious, wild growth of dark curls that surrounded it, and the way that cock had looked when Javert's large hand had gripped it tightly. It was one thing to know Javert as the merciless embodiment of faceless cruelty that would see him locked away from wind and sunshine; to know him now as a creature of desires, of needs even that formidable, iron will had to bend to – that was strange, as if something had turned the world upside-down, and he kept seeing Javert as he had seen him then, that cold, harsh face transformed by pleasure and despair, and he could make no sense of it.

The duck was an unlooked-for gift chance had granted them. Javert's explanation was curt, and they still did not quite meet each other's eyes while Javert gave his account of how he had come upon the wounded animal and managed to entrap it despite his own injury. There was a new bruise at Javert's brow, but the prospect of food – a roasted duck, at that! – was nearly overwhelming, and Valjean could hardly take his eyes off the animal. They ate well that day, and although the silence lingered between them, and they took care to avoid looking at each other, it was still not the open hostility that had been there before, when he had first been forced to reveal himself to Javert.

He still visited the ford each day, noted the way that with each day that passed without further rain, the water receded a little, so that more of the path that led through the river was relinquished by the water with sullen reluctance, and if Javert had been well, Valjean would have thought it possible to attempt a crossing once a few more days had passed.

But Javert was not well, and so, every day, he retreated from the ford, his steps as heavy as his heart as he turned his back to the freedom that awaited him past the river. With every passing day, the chance grew that the men that had to be searching for them by now might decide to follow the path that would lead them to the broken bridge – and no matter what truce they had silently agreed on, Valjean knew that as soon as Javert took a step out of this valley, he would wrap himself in the heavy coat of the law, fasten shackles around Valjean's wrists, and never again think of that moment when Valjean had pulled him from the tightening grasp of death at the cost of his own freedom.

“Are you going fishing again?”

Valjean raised his head, and it took him a moment to answer. Javert rarely spoke, and almost never to inquire about his plans for the day; he seemed to feel his own uselessness so heavily that he preferred to seethe in silence when Valjean was forced to abandon him in the hut.

“Do you want to come?”

Javert looked up, his eyes wide and stunned. Neither of them spoke for a moment; Valjean was just as surprised to find that he had uttered those words.

Javert swallowed; his lips parted, although no words escaped as he turned his head, looking at the dusty walls that surrounded them, then he nodded jerkily, and when he spoke, his voice was strangely quiet.

“Yes.” He licked his lips, met Valjean's eyes for a moment, then glanced at the floor. “I – could be useful,” he said, and now it was Valjean who refused to meet his eyes. A petty part of him still regretted the invitation he had uttered in a moment of thoughtlessness, but the drab surroundings, the sparse sunlight that filtered in through the window to show dust and spiderwebs and the result of years of disuse, weighed heavily enough even on him that he could not begrudge Javert a chance to spend a day away from the walls he had stared at for days.

It was a mercy Javert would not return, he was aware of that fact. He thought of it for a while as they made their way towards the pool – slowly at first, when Javert refused his help, but soon he tired and accepted Valjean's support with silent disgruntlement. Valjean wondered what had given Javert the stamina to struggle all the way to the pool on his own before while he had washed himself, then flushed hotly when he remembered what had happened after, and tried to force his mind away from the images that conjured. They did not speak, but even though his body was pressed close to Javert's, Javert's arm around his shoulder as he helped him carry his weight without using the injured leg, the journey to the pool proved exhausting enough that there was no time for talk, and not enough time to linger on memories of Javert beneath the apple tree, painted with spots of gold and green from the rays of light that had fallen through the leaves above him.

It was not as unsettling as he had feared to spend the day at the pool with Javert. They did not talk much, but had the excuse of the fish for that. Javert tried to make himself useful for a while by slowly moving through the surrounding trees with his crutch, looking for another harvest of mushrooms, or another injured bird, Valjean supposed. He did not ask, or offer help; he did not think Javert would have been happy to hear the suggestion. He knew too well what hours of dreary confinement did to the soul, and although a part of him could not help but watch as Javert bore his own confinement so ungraciously, he kept his silence.

In the end, what did it matter? To Javert, these were different things. The convict had forfeited all rights to sunlight, air, clean water. Javert, on the other hand, had been injured while doing his duty, and would prefer to keep doing his duty, which must certainly be to keep Valjean from escaping, instead of wasting his hours staring at the walls of their hut.

When Javert returned at last, all he carried were more of the tender, green sprouts of pine branches. Valjean watched him approach, the tall, lean figure still as imposing, even though he had to use the crutch, and his clothing was dirty and torn. His face, on the other hand, was filled by a calmness that was new, and was accompanied by a certain air of content weariness that Valjean recognized as the feeling a man might display who had spent all day toiling on a field, or in the trees of his youth, and returned home at day's end weary but satisfied.

He looked down at the water when Javert approached, then shook his head at his questioning gaze. No success yet. Javert nodded slowly, his brow furrowed as he looked at the calm water, as if he doubted Valjean's belief that there was a fish hiding at the murky bottom. Valjean, who had bathed in the pool often enough to know the depth of the water, especially where the rock faced the cliffside and had been worn away by centuries of the fount that was surfacing here, watched the line. He had used several worms at once today, in the hope that the old fish would be lured out by his hunger – he had seen them in his youth, these old, suspicious fishes grown large at the bottom of a pond, and though he had never managed to catch more than a glimpse of a shadow, the fish had to be at least the size of his arm, if not larger.

Everything was quiet. There was a solitary bird somewhere in the distance, and the murmur of the water steadily refilling the pool. Javert slowly sat down and leaned his back against one of the sun-warmed boulders that lined the pool, and though he took care to stretch out his broken leg, and Valjean thought he saw him bite back a groan at the motion, he was quiet after he had settled into his position, and once Valjean dared to glance at him, he found Javert's face relaxed, his eyes half-closed as he looked at the sky.

Valjean looked at his rod again, moved it very carefully so that the hook with the bundle of worms would drift enticingly through the water. He felt no menace, no discomfort, and that was strange. Could one grow used to such a thing? Could captor and captive co-exist? When he turned his head again, the sun gleamed on Javert's hair, and then Javert turned his head, so that their eyes met. There was a strange wariness in Javert's gaze – perhaps Javert as well was uncertain what to make of this situation chance had forced them into.

Javert flushed after a moment, and lowered his eyes, lingered on where the line entered the water. Valjean was certain that he would offer advice now, make a biting remark, perhaps, for Valjean himself was aware that he had not proven very lucky so far, especially with this old fish who was probably wily enough to keep eluding them as he had escaped all other dangers for many years.

Still – there was something companionable about the silence. Maybe captivity had indeed mellowed Javert, though this was a captivity of wooden walls and a small fire, and a broken bone instead of the iron chain for him.

Valjean pulled out the rusty nail with its burden of wriggling worms, then cast it again, trying to aim once more for the end of the pool, where the water was deepest, and where the ground was covered in mud from thousands of rotting leaves. When he look at Javert once more, he found that Javert had turned to watch the water as well. How strange, to see him so unguarded. Almost it was as if for the moment, the past had been washed away, and Javert, that looming shadow of suspicion, had been given substance by suffering and hunger, and at last in the sunlight had been revealed as human.

Valjean did not know why his mind lingered on that thought. It would make no difference once they left the valley. Even Javert, ever prostrate before authority with the worship Valjean directed towards the cross and the silver candlesticks, had seen that this valley knew no greater authority than that of hunger, and the need for warmth. In this court of nature, Valjean was as free as Javert – had been granted greater freedom, for Javert himself was indicted by his injury, and had been condemned to a week of confinement.

Valjean found that he could not bring himself to begrudge him the fresh air he was allowed to breathe today. A part of him knew well that instinctive need that made the eyes linger on the windows, on the door, hoping for a miracle that would grant even a glimpse of the freedom that awaited beyond the jail. And while Javert's boredom was but the smallest glimpse of the endless misery and dreariness that would await in Toulon, today it did not feel so strange to share his freedom with his captor.

For a moment, as his eyes lingered on Javert, he wondered what might have been had Javert not recognized him; had Javert never remembered a convict from Toulon. If hunger and labor was enough to make this fragile truce possible, might it not also have been possible to find a similar, precarious balance in Montreuil?

The thought brought back a reminder of all he was about to lose, and worse, all the good that would remain undone – but then, a shock ran through the line, a tug powerful enough to almost rip the rod out of his hands, distracted as he was by the misery he knew awaited once more. He tightened his grip on the branch just in time, and then, another tug even stronger so that he hissed and stood, pushing back against the force that sought to pull him into the water, and there, in the murkiness at the deep end of the pool, a shadow moved, and the water darkened even further as motion disturbed the mud and rotten leaves that had piled up there through the years.

“Valjean–”

“Yes!” he said, barely able to keep his eyes from where the line entered the water. “I have him!” He almost laughed, but the fish kept pulling – it had to be a fish, it had to be, there was no tree there, only mud, there was no way the nail could have caught in a root somewhere–

“I see him! There!” Javert's hand clutched his arm; for a moment, Valjean was distracted by the way hot breath ghosted over his neck. Should he not be used to have Javert close by now, he wondered dizzily as a new tension took hold of him. What was this but a reminder that whatever truce this was would not last? And yet...

Again the fish pulled; yes, that was no root beneath the water, he could feel its strength.

“Careful! Careful!” Javert said. His fingers tightened around his arm in his excitement almost to the point of pain, but Valjean was laughing, could not stop, and Javert made a hoarse, rusty sound that he only recognized as a chuckle after a moment had passed.

“Don't lose him!”

“Javert, this is hardly my first fish!” he said, still laughing with disbelieving joy at the thought that their fate had turned at last, and then he fell silent, confused and distracted by the realization that he was jesting with Javert – that he was _laughing_ with Javert! Javert's hand was still on his shoulder, fingers tight with excitement – the grasp of a companion, not that of a shackle, and Valjean felt a deep sense of unease all of a sudden. To feel him so close, to feel his breath on his cheek, and to laugh! What world was this, where such a thing was possible? To think Javert capable of laughter at all!

And then the fish once more reared in anger at his impending captivity, pulled and turned in the pool so that it took all of Valjean's strength to resist the force that sought to drag him into the water.

By the end of the afternoon, Valjean stood in the shallow water of the pool, drenched from head to toe, shivering slightly from the cold. He was not laughing anymore, had lost the strength it took to jest – but the fish was still on the hook, had slowed at last in its angry attempts to escape, and was certainly, Valjean prayed, as exhausted as they were after an entire afternoon of the pointless fight.

Javert held the rod now. With his injured leg, he was no help in the pool, and so Valjean was the one who stood in the water, waiting patiently for the large, enraged shape to come so close that he could support Javert in pulling the beast in. The glimpses they had seen of the wels were terrifying – Valjean, who had once seen a fish as large as a child sold at the market of his childhood, had seen enough of the fish resurface to guess that it had to be almost twice the size of that half-remembered, near-mythical creature from his past. And this fish seemed a monster in truth, with its broad mouth that gaped open wide enough to fit around his entire head.

Again the fish came up to the surface, and Javert shortened the line once more, his face a grimace, his hands bleeding where the line had cut into it.

“Now, Valjean!” He barked the words, his voice rough and weary, and Valjean, too exhausted for a reply, nodded, took a deep breath, waited – and then he lunged. They had pulled the fish in far enough that if he could just hold it, if Javert could tighten the line further, they would be able to heave it out of the water – and there it was, wet and strange against him. Closing his arms around the wels was an embrace unlike anything he had ever known. There was coldness, the smooth skin slippery and hard, and beneath, a firm, angry tension, as if the entire beast was one taut muscle – and then that tension exploded, and Valjean felt himself nearly lifted out of the water by the strength that yet remained in the monstrous catfish. With a low groan, he tried to tighten his hold on the slithering beast, failing to find purchase on the muddy ground as he was pushed around in the water, now nearly dragged below the surface, now almost smashed against the rocks. One hand closed around a fin – the beast exploded again with new anger, pulled him below water for so long that he almost thought he would have to let go – but then it wearied, and resurfaced sullenly, and he gasped for air and choked on the water still in his mouth, unable to see from the water and tears that streamed from his face, coughing and choking as he held on for dear life. Dimly, he thought he heard Javert call his name, and he used what strength remained to him to push the fish towards the sound with his bulk. 

This time, when the wels exploded into action again once he had him cornered against the rocks, he was prepared. With one hand still on a fin, he fell to his knees, blended out Javert's voice while the fish kept thrashing, all slippery, angry coiled strength – and then he rose, and with the last of the strength that remained to him, pushed the fish forward, upward, with hands and arms and shoulders, heaving it out of the water while Javert grasped that gigantic mouth and pulled–

And then it was done, and the fish was well and truly caught, and Valjean remained in the water for a long moment, slumped against the wet rock while he gasped for air, still coughing out water every now and then, trembling from the cold and nerves.

At last it were Javert's arms that pulled him from the pool, and he stumbled out of the water clumsily, fell to his knees there, next to the monstrous fish, still breathing hard and shaking from exhaustion. There were hands on him then, using the shirt he had taken off earlier as a towel, and he bore the touch with dazed exhaustion, even when they firmly rubbed the fabric down his scarred back. At last, Javert released him, but only for a moment; something wrapped around him, warm and soft, and when he managed to raise his head at last, he found that Javert had taken off his own shirt to wrap it around him.

As soon as he became aware of his gaze, Javert turned to look at the fish again. “Take off your trousers,” he said, his voiced strained after the day's exhaustion. “You are trembling from the cold. Dry yourself with your shirt. If you fall ill here...”

It was good advice, Valjean was aware of that, but he had barely enough strength left to grip the shirt and rub his numb legs dry. Javert still stared at the fish.

“Give yourself some time to recover,” Javert said at last. “Then go back – make a fire if you need, eat something. You need it, you look like a ghost. And once you feel better – and only then, Valjean, we cannot have you fall ill, I mean it – then you can return, and bring the knife, and we will clean the fish together, and carry it back.”

Valjean wanted to protest, but now that the excitement was past, he began to feel how exhausting it truly had been to spend such a long time in the cold water. He could barely feel his legs. So instead he simply nodded in exhaustion, and then closed his eyes, leaned back against the rock, and allowed the sun's warmth to slowly thaw the blood in his legs.

The monstrous old wels was as large as a grown man. When he stumbled back towards the pool later, still clad in Javert's shirt and his own damp trousers, he found Javert awaiting him there, still leaning against the rocks, and though there was no smile on his face, there was a strange calmness that was in its own way just as unsettling as Javert's glower had been, for the absence of suspicion or condemnation on that face was just as startling. The fish resting next to Javert was easily as broad as Javert's lean chest, and Valjean forced his eyes away when he realized that they had followed the sparse trail of dark hair on his chest downward.

“I brought the knife,” he said, unnecessarily, for he held it in his hand, for Javert to see. He could not think of anything else to say – but Javert simply nodded, and then used the crutch to help himself stand, looking down at the fish with that confusing calmness still in his eyes.

“Let us gut and clean it. How will we carry it? I am less of a help than I hoped I would be.”

Valjean eyed the fish again. Yes, as tall as he himself was – but not quite as broad as him. He had wrestled with it in the water for half the day, Laocoön vanquishing the serpent at long last, and now that this was done, he would certainly find strength enough somewhere to carry his nemesis home.

“I will carry it,” he said as he bent and began to gut the fish, avoiding Javert's eyes, which even now he could feel on his back. After a moment had passed, and he still could not shake the feeling that Javert was studying him, he looked up, careful to keep his eyes focused on Javert's face, lest the sight of the trail of dark hair brought back memories of that embarrassing encounter. “I still have your shirt; you must be cold by now. Here, let me–”

“No.” 

It was not the word that made him still, but the touch of Javert's hand – a thoughtless touch, his hand pressed to his back in placation. A friend would touch like this, he thought, standing helpless and frozen as the heat of Javert's skin seeped through the fabric of his shirt. But Javert was no friend, and where his hand rested, broad, white scars showed the damage caused by hands just like the one that had reached out for him now. A small tremor ran through him. Javert, too, did not move. The touch was nearly unbearable, but only because of the memories it woke. The warmth that seeped from Javert's fingers into his skin was strange as well, and even stranger was that it felt almost pleasant, to be touched so by another – to be treated as an equal once more. No more was he Madeleine, afforded bows and empty words of politeness – but neither was he that wretch who had slaved in the galleys for so long, condemned both by the law and Javert. Javert had given him his own shirt to wear – Javert, who still said _tu_ , but who had also labored by his side all day, who had grown weary alongside him, gone from laughter to curses to groans of exhaustion.

Javert swallowed, and then slowly pulled his hand away. “Keep it for now. You are chilled. And I am warm enough in the sun.” His voice was strangely hushed, and Valjean did not know what to say. He had not thought that there would ever arise an occasion where he had reason to thank Javert. So instead, he simply nodded, and then returned to his task, and they both stayed silent apart from what sparse words were necessary for their work.

#

They ate well that night. They ate until they could barely move, warm and content at last, still barely able to believe that finally, chance had granted them food enough to last a week, if not more. They ate, and ate, and while the flesh of the old wels had some of the taste of the mud it had hidden in for so long, the meat was white and juicy and firm, and they charred it over the fire and ate until they nearly felt sick. As they watched the fire burn down, they slowly, lazily, set to work and cut the remaining meat into smaller strips to smoke over the damp pine wood, both exhausted, both so intoxicated by that sensation of having eaten their fill after so long that they gave each other a triumphant smile when their fingers, slick with the fat and the juices of the wels, brushed against each other by accident.

After a moment, Valjean calmly continued his work, pretending that nothing of note had happened – but Javert remained motionless, and when Valjean looked up after a long moment, his eyes were dark, questioning, and the smile had vanished.

“I know why you did it that first time,” Javert said suddenly. He studied Valjean, his brows tightly drawn together, although it seemed puzzlement rather than scorn. “You saved me on the bridge because you thought you would remain Madeleine. Of course, it suited you to have me in your debt. But why that second time? I don't understand, Valjean.”

Valjean heard his own heartbeat echo in his ears, tried to think of the weight of the iron chain – but all he could think of was how strange it was to have Javert look at him like this, as if he was seeing him for the first time; as if Valjean, at last, was no longer Madeleine, that abstract figure of authority, nor near-animal convict.

“Javert, there is no debt between us,” he said, and knew it to be true, although even now terror tore at his heart at the thought of the galleys. Why should he have to be returned to torment? Had he not brought prosperity to Montreuil? Had he not saved Javert's life twice? Would it not be right of Javert to keep silent, could he not demand his freedom in return for the life he had spared twice, and by endangering his own?

“What man would walk away when it is in his power to save another? There is no reason for what I did, save that you were in danger. I did what anyone would have done.”

Javert's lips twisted into an expression of bitterness – not quite a smile, although there was a terrible amusement to it. “I am not a fool, Valjean,” he said, although there was no real force behind his words. They continued to work side by side for a while, both silent now.

The exertion and the abundance of food made it easier to retire, for they were both so exhausted that no words were needed, and it had become a familiar routine to slide beneath the blanket, to feel Javert's heat, to hear his breathing. To his body, Javert's closeness had come to mean comfort and rest. His mind, on the other hand, found it more difficult to forget about the misery of his past, and the eternal drudgery Javert would return him to. At first, Valjean had lain silent and still at night, trying to escape the thoughts that tortured him with the chain and the lash that would soon be his fate once more. Then, there had been a new torment: the memory of Javert curled against him in sleep, his prick hard and insistent against his thigh, and then the vision of that same prick jutting from its nest of dark curls while Javert stroked himself almost furiously, that proud, closed face undone and vulnerable in his desperate search for release...

Valjean released a shuddering breath when even now, when he should be weary enough to fall asleep straight away, that terrible thought returned, the memory that tormented him for reasons he did not understand – reasons that should not exist. Again he exhaled, turned his head to reassure himself that Javert had long since fallen asleep, turned away from him as was their usual position – and found himself looking straight at Javert, who watched him with a strange, confused expression.

Valjean swallowed, uncomfortable now. He did not know what to say. They had never talked, not like this; he did not think he could bear to talk like this, with Javert pressed against him, both of them warm and vulnerable and human. Javert's eyes watched him still. It had already grown too dark to make out his expression clearly, but then he raised his hand, and Valjean froze when Javert's fingers touched his brow with a gentleness he had not thought him capable of.

Javert licked his lips. “You are bleeding,” he said, his voice hushed. Even so, his breath brushed against Valjean's lips; Valjean did not know what to say, or how to react. “You – there. I think the fish got you in the water.”

Javert's face was strangely focused, he could see that much. There was no anger, no condemnation, although he could feel the trembling of Javert's fingers where they pressed against the skin next to the wound – and then Javert pulled his hand away, his eyes wide, almost shocked, and he turned so that Valjean was left with a view of rigid, tense shoulders.

He turned as well after a moment, feeling a similar tension spread within him as his back pressed against Javert's, but Javert did not speak again, and the silence lingered between them, tense now where before it had been companionable, until sleep finally claimed him.

#

Valjean woke to a knife at his throat.

Above him, dark against the deeper blackness surrounding them, Javert loomed. His face was terrible, his chest heaving with fast breaths, his eyes glittered as if a sudden fever had taken him – the pressure against his throat increased, and Valjean swallowed, remaining silent and motionless as he looked up at Javert. Only Javert's breathing broke the silence, the sound like that of a large, frightened animal; then, after a long moment, his hand that held the knife began to tremble, and then suddenly he laughed, the sound as terrible as the look on his face, and pulled the knife away.

“There!” he said, and in that word was encompassed a despair so overwhelming that Valjean's eyes slid from the blade to Javert's face. “You see; I cannot even – you, a convict! And suddenly I find I cannot, that these fingers that have served so well for so long have within them the spark of rebellion; worse, that I _want not_ , though you should be my prisoner by law, and instead... Instead...”

He fell silent, then groaned in agony, and Valjean's breath caught in his throat when he saw Javert point the knife at himself instead. “To even entertain such a thought! To feel unease at the thought of chains on you, though that is what you deserve! To wonder what harm it would do should I not tell – ah, but it is too late! The letter, Javert, remember! I sent my suspicions to Paris. And now I am proven right, and yet something within me is wrong, is broken, and I do not–”

He fell silent amidst his sentence, looking down at Valjean with eyes wide with pain and terror, his entire body shaking as he gulped down air. The tip of the blade trembled against his chest, and Valjean, still holding Javert's gaze, calmly reached out for it.

“You will not even let me do this,” Javert said with great helplessness as Valjean took the knife from him, then carelessly tossed it away into the darkness. Javert laughed again, that terrible, soundless laugh, his shoulders shaking with despair. “And there you throw away revenge. I don't understand you, Jean Valjean. I would rather that you had let me fall, that first night.” 

“There is no revenge, Javert.” He hesitated; then, when Javert closed his eyes in torment, reached out, smoothed his thumb over the deep creases between Javert's brows. Javert's shoulders shook, and for a moment, Valjean remembered another man weeping in the darkness on his knees while all of Digne slept. He hesitated again, searched for words, although even now, the thought of offering comfort to such a man was inconceivable – and yet, so was the thought of Javert doubting, Javert pointing a knife at himself, Javert–

Javert groaned in anguish, then bit back the sound. His eyes opened. They looked at each other for a long while. It was too dark to see much, but Valjean could feel the heaviness of Javert's gaze, a weight that settled on him, spreading heat throughout his body, and almost despite himself, his fingers spread, slid to cup Javert's face, stroked the coarseness of his whiskers. As Javert bent his head, his fingers curled around Javert's nape, and their lips met in a strange mix of pressure and warmth and rough, soft skin, and only when Javert drew back could he think, dizzily, that this was a kiss, that Javert had kissed him, that–

Again their lips met, and his mouth tingled; he gasped, startled, and Javert groaned against his mouth; he could feel the vibration of it, the heat of his breath, and then he could taste Javert's tongue, hot and wet against his own. There was a hunger within him now, a great and terrible thing that frightened him with the way it had swallowed all thought, all doubt, but his prick had swollen to aching hardness and Javert had somehow come to rest next to him on the pallet. It was too much; he could not think – he thrust his hand into Javert's hair, gripped a handful of it, pulled it free from the string that bound it and Javert sobbed into his mouth. He could feel Javert's cock slide along his thigh, pushing against him with instinctive little thrusts, and that touch alone was almost too much, and not enough.

Again he thought of how it had looked, that wild patch of dark curls, Javert's prick a dark red in his fist, and he spread his legs, pulled Javert closer, nearly sobbed with overwhelmed pleasure himself when the head of his cock slid wetly over Javert's stomach, the sensitive skin rubbing over and over against that trail of coarse hair. Javert trembled against him, although there was no hesitancy in the way his prick thrust against him with desperate little jerks – Valjean tried to kiss him once more, and when he found his mouth in the darkness, licked at his lip, then licked inside, swallowing another moan as he slid his tongue against the wet heat of Javert's. Every shuddered moan was breathed into his mouth with the devotion of prayer, and Javert's fingers were pressed to his cheek now, smoothing down to his chin, then back to his brow, then they slid into his hair, and Valjean, who remembered that hand wrapped around Javert's prick, imagined his own hand in its place. Another moan escaped Javert as he slid his hand down between their bodies, following that trail of hair past his navel with his fingertips – but when he encountered the more copious growth between his legs, he hesitated, his fingers curling into the hair, but not yet daring to press further. Javert made a soft, helpless sound, pressed his lips to his again, panting his need against his mouth as he arched, muscles contracting beneath the press of Valjean's palm.

“I... thought of your hand on me, when I – ah, touch me, Monsieur!” 

Valjean, who had never heard him like this, who had never thought that it might be possible to hear this man plead, devoid of pride and condemnation at last, flinched to hear himself all of a sudden addressed _Monsieur_ again. Once, it had come as a shock to hear that appellation after long years as little more than an animal – now, it came as a shock as well to hear Javert slip back into old politeness, and he hesitated still, swallowed, tried to search Javert's eyes – but Javert's eyes were closed, and Valjean's hand trembled.

“No, Javert,” he said, although he did not take his hand away. He could not. He could only pray that Javert would open his eyes – that Javert would look at him in the dim glow of what few coals remained, and see him for who he was.

“Please.” The word was choked, but unmistakably a plea, and Valjean froze – to hear such a thing forced from Javert's lips! But when Javert's eyes opened at last, they were wide, glazed with need, and Valjean shuddered, torn between his need and the certitude that he could not bear to touch Javert and know that Javert saw someone else by his side.

“Don't say _please_ , Javert.” He tightened his hand in the curls again, feeling as if he could sense the heat of Javert's aching prick already against his fingers. “Say _tu_ here; say my name if you want my hand on–” He could not say it, choked at the very thought of it, wanting it so much he could hardly bear it. “On you,” he said, and Javert made a strangled sound, hips arching so that his own cock slid once more through that thicket of coarse hair.

It drew a strained moan from him as well; he slid his free hand into Javert's hair, stroked his thumb along his sideburns. He felt the hardness of Javert's brace against his leg, hesitated a moment at the reminder of his injury, but then Javert simply rolled onto his back, his eyes still on his face, open and wide and searching with a helpless despair – he could not do this, Valjean thought again, it was impossible, and all the while his body had moved with Javert, had come to rest against him, his own aching cock pressed to Javert's thigh, careful to keep his weight away from the injured leg. Again he curled his fingers into the wild growth of hair between Javert's legs, and then his knuckles brushed that heat – Javert's prick, so hot against his fingers, the skin so soft, and such hardness beneath.

“Valjean!” The word was rough, desperate, another plea in the darkness – and this time, it made Valjean tremble again, and his fingers moved forward, until the back of his hand pressed against that long, hard shape.

“Valjean–” A moment's hesitation, as if Javert as well was frightened by the magnitude of what he was asking for – and then he touched his shaking hand to Valjean's chest, splayed his fingers, nothing but a naked, overcome need in his eyes now as he surrendered at last to the truth of what they were about to do. “Touch me, Valjean.”

He tried to swallow the sound that wanted to escape, but it spilled from him nevertheless as he arched forward, a low, guttural sound from deep within his throat. He thrust, once, his cock sliding upwards, and then his fingers held Javert's prick, and he felt Javert shaking against him, that cold, cruel mouth now hot and soft at his throat, whispering words of supplication to this madness that had overcome them both. His lips shaped a name – Javert! – but he could not speak it, could only touch, trace with his fingers that proof of the desire that burned in Javert, and know that the same sin burned within him. He had barely even touched himself this way until the passing years and misery and toil made it all too easy to ignore the needs of his body; and yet, to touch Javert and feel him tremble was an entirely different thing than the quick touch of his own hand in his youth.

He tightened his fingers around him until Javert groaned against his throat, and then Javert's fingers moved over his chest, sliding into the hair there, stroking him with a tentative carefulness that made him tighten his grip on his cock even more until Javert tried to helplessly thrust into his grip. Then Javert's hand was on his cock, and he could not think anymore, could only feel the burn of that slow slide of his wet prick through Javert's long fingers, panting his moans against Javert's cheek now. 

“Ah, please–” he swallowed Javert's words in another kiss, could not bear the pleas; the past should have no place here – _Don't beg_ , he tried to say with his touch, stroked more roughly now, remembering the way Javert had touched himself, and Javert groaned his name into his mouth, his own fingers slackening around Valjean's cock for a moment as he tensed. The hot, wet splash of his spend against his fingers, over his stomach made him gasp even as Javert arched against him, his face a mask of something that seemed so close to torment that Valjean was paralyzed by fear for a moment. What had he done, what had – what had _they_ done, what devil had driven them to such base carnality–

“Valjean,” Javert said again, and he had never heard his name spoken like this – had never thought Javert capable of such quiet, profound worship. Javert's eyes were wide, but he was still watching him – him, Valjean, not Madeleine, and then Javert exhaled, moved with another strained groan until he lay curled against Valjean. The position seemed one of discomfort to him, but Javert's head rested on his chest now, his breath hot as he pressed kisses into the hair that grew there, and his fingers took up their work once more, sliding with increasing confidence over him. Javert did not speak, but his touch spoke for him – that was not the subservience he would have shown Madeleine, nor was it a disdainful touch meant to shame, which Valjean thought was what the convict would have deserved.

Javert mouthed at his chest once more, his lips brushing a nipple – he licked at it, breathed against it, smoothed his fingers around the tip of Valjean's cock at the same time, his hand slick with his own spend now, and Valjean tried to swallow the sound that built in him to no avail. Once more he slid his hands into Javert's hair, tugged his head up by it – their eyes met for one long, breathless moment, and he could not even say what it was he saw in Javert's eyes, only that Javert looked at him, and saw him – not Madeleine, but the wretch Jean Valjean, who broke parole, who lived a lie, and still his fingers slid over his cock, handling him with such care, with such need, that when he moaned and tensed and spent himself in wet spurts, it was Javert at last who could no longer bear it and closed his eyes, bent his head so that their brows touched, and the warm air of Javert's breath brushed against his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Valjean hardly knew what to think when he woke the next morning. It would have been easy to call it a nightmare, to pretend nothing untoward had happened, but he woke to Javert resting heavily against him, naked and relaxed, and the dried remains of their spend itching on his skin. With a sudden restlessness he yearned to throw Javert off together with the blanket, to return to the pool to wash Javert from his skin, as well as the memory of what should never have come to pass – but to do so was hard when Javert woke, and instead of condemnation, there was only a stunned, helpless disbelief in his eyes, and even harder when Valjean's eyes found the knife that now gleamed innocently in the light of the morning sun where it had come to rest in the middle of the floor.

When he sat up slowly, so did Javert. The blanket slid from their bodies to pool between them; the pale light of the sun now illuminated all that had been hidden by darkness the night before, and Valjean forced himself not to take his eyes away, to take in the lean, hard body with its sparse covering of dark hair, the more copious growth of hair between Javert's legs, the prick that laid nestled there, now soft. All of that he had seen before. All of that was different now that he knew what that skin tasted like, how it felt like to have that prick harden to thrust desperately into his fist, how that harsh mouth could turn to softness against his throat.

There was nothing shy about Javert even in daylight, although he still retained a part of that dazed helplessness. The eyes that were turned on Valjean were wide and dark, as if even now he failed to make sense of his own thoughts and actions, but he did not look away when Valjean met his gaze, and at last reached out to rest a hand that shook only very slightly against Valjean's chest.

His lips parted; for a long moment, he did not speak, and Valjean in turn did not know what to say either. Had this been but a temporary madness? Now, in the light of the sun, it was impossible to look on Javert and not think of the weight of those hands closing around his own, and the iron chains these same hands would deliver him to. That fate was unavoidable. He could hardly bear to think of that future misery, and yet he knew that nothing they had done would change that path that would lead him south to the sea and the galleys once more. And still, despite the terror of what was to come, now it was also hard to look upon Javert and not think of that moment when that mouth had slackened, when that tall body had tensed and arched against him, when Javert had humbled himself and pleaded when Valjean had never demanded his pride.

Was there trust between them now? He did not think that there could ever be. But in that night of madness, he had come to know Javert in a way he had known no other person in his life, and just as he had held Javert's life in his hands two times, now Javert, too, could have taken his life, and had chosen to return it to him. It was not trust – but something had been forged between them, and Javert too, it seemed, was helpless to deny it.

“Will you – will you not ask me to not deliver you to the court?” Javert said at last, and Valjean was almost surprised to hear a small tremor in that voice, though Javert's hand had ceased its trembling once it had spread and molded itself to his skin, warm and certain as his words were not.

Valjean did not know what to say, and finally Javert bit back another despairing laugh and drew back his hand to bury it in his hair instead.

“No, no,” he said when Valjean reached out for him, his eyes still wild, not unlike a spooked horse, “you should not–”

Valjean threaded his fingers through his hair, tried to comb out the tangles the night had left, hardly daring to believe that it was his hand that was doing these things, and Javert bore it for a long moment, chest heaving, before at last he turned away with a sound close to anguish.

“Valjean,” he said, “Valjean–” He fell silent very suddenly, swallowed what further words wanted to escape, and then exhaled shakily. Valjean looked at where his hand now hung in the air, one last strand of dark hair clinging to it, and after a moment, he lowered it, watched the strand slip free, and waited for the sickening dread to return that had always accompanied the thought of being close to Javert.

It did not come. Within him, waiting but for the right moment to strike, he could feel once more the brine of Toulon's sea rise that would salt fields and leech all life from him and leave him with mildew and rot and stagnation. That horror had been burnt into his skin with the passing of second after second, day after day, year after year, with the precise, merciless cruelty of water hollowing out stone. It could not be forgotten, nor could it be left behind, as much as Madeleine had tried. But all the same, now there was the memory too of Javert trembling in the darkness, turning that knife against himself, and Valjean could not shake that memory either, nor the memory of the night he had spent in similar darkness and similar anguish.

“Rest, Javert,” he said at last, deciding that maybe it would be a greater mercy for both of them to keep whatever truce they had managed to arrange. He had no words for what had happened; Javert as well seemed unable to talk, and perhaps an hour apart to gather their thoughts would do them both good. It was too late to deny what had happened. It was also, he hoped, too late for Javert to give in to a moment's madness and do harm to himself, although he nevertheless made certain to take hold of the knife when he finally got up.

Now, for the first time, Javert flushed to see him hold that reminder of what had almost come to pass. “You need not... That is, I will not, I am not... I will not raise it against myself again,” Javert said finally, visibly fighting to stay composed.

Valjean watched him for a long moment, then nodded slowly and placed the knife onto the table. It still seemed more a nightmare than reality, to look at Javert and remember those moments of mindless need, to look at that cruel mouth and remember it sweet and soft and feel himself longing for that metamorphosis to happen again – to feel dread at the thought of the evening, of sharing a blanket with Javert, and not because he feared his touch but because he feared he might desire it...

“I know, Javert,” he said, and then he dressed while Javert watched, both of them silent, both of them flushed at their nakedness, though the discomfort now came from the heat that spread through him at the thought of Javert's eyes on him, and at the way his own eyes were guilty drawn back to that lean, exposed chest, and the sparse trail of dark hair leading downwards.

#

This time, he was so distracted by his thoughts that still circled around the events of the past night in the vain attempt to make sense of what could not be, that he had made it all the way down to where the now calmer water of the river lapped at the path crossing it before he realized that someone was hailing him. There, on the other side of the water that had been a raging torrent just a few days past, stood a man next to a cart, waving a threadbare hat at him.

Valjean froze for a moment. So often had he made this trek to the river, only to be greeted by no sound but that of the water, that for a long moment he could hardly believe what he saw. Then, at last, he shook himself, and slowly raised his hand while in his mind, he could see the river rise once more until it became the sea beneath whose salty waters he would drown at last, and shouted a greeting, and a call for help, and knew that every step now brought him closer to that terrible fate. It was not too late yet, he thought again with despair as the farmer turned away with the promise to send help. He need not tell Javert. When the man returned, he could cross with him, and make it to the next town before sending back help for Javert. Javert had food enough for days, he would survive a few hours' wait; his leg caused him pain, but certainly it could wait a few more hours for a doctor's examination.

Instead, he walked back towards their hut, each step slow and painful, as if he were dragging himself forward through deep mud, and when he entered that dusty room and saw Javert turn towards him with expectation and an almost embarrassed hesitancy that was new, and might have pleased him another day, he made himself walk forward, and stop in front of him, the knife on the table in easy reach of both.

“We will leave at last, Javert,” he said, and pretended not to watch that play of emotion on Javert's face. What good did it do to see that terrible triumph now replaced with confused relief and a nearly painful uncertainty? Never had he seen Javert doubt before – but all the same, there was no doubt in Valjean's heart, who remembered still that one, unbearable moment of Javert's mouth hot and sweet at his throat while he lost himself in a pleasure he had never known before, while at the same time he already felt the shackles close around his hands once more, and the whip tear open the old furrows on his back for hands like Javert's to sow pain.

All of a sudden, he could not bear it any longer, and almost turned to leave and run towards the river, ripping what few, precious hours he could from the hands of fate – but then a low groan of pain escaped Javert when he tried to stand, and Valjean found himself by his side, offering Javert his shoulder to lean on. This, too, returned memories that were uncomfortable, as did the sound of Javert panting through gritted teeth so close to his ear. Javert's hands tightened around his arms almost painfully, and when he turned to meet his eyes, all earlier doubt had disappeared, to be replaced with wild determination.

“You should have let me fall, that first night,” Javert muttered, his expression grim, his jaw clenched, and then he did not speak again, and Valjean helped him towards the river, his soul beating its wings inside him although the cage had already closed around him once more.

#

The ride in the cart was long, and mostly spent in silence. Despite the way the river had receded, it had still taken the help of three strong men as well as a length of rope to cross the river in a small boat that threatened to be carried away by the river's swift current more than once. The men had brought food and a bottle of a cheap, sour red wine as well, and in the cart there was a blanket waiting for them. Valjean had accepted both help and food in silent expectation, his head bowed, awaiting that damning explanation from Javert that would make the men mutter and draw back and eye him with suspicion and hatred – but Javert as well had chosen to remain silent, and when the bread was put into their hands, he accepted it, and when the bottle was opened, he hesitated only for one moment before he took a large gulp. Then Javert leaned back against the side of the cart, and still did not protest when the men spread the blanket over both of them, and Valjean, in his confusion, drank the wine without tasting it, to make up for the words that seemed impossible to find.

The cart rolled slowly. The men conversed in low voices, and Valjean wondered how they must appear – was the cut and the cloth of his attire still fine enough to give them the appearance of two gentlemen who had been surprised by the storm so many days past? Or was the truth written on their faces: that hardened despair of the convict etched in deep lines around his eyes and mouth, the rigid iron of the pitiless hand of the law on Javert's mien?

Worse, he thought, flushing hotly when Javert's knee brushed his beneath the blanket, when his fingers twitched against the rough wood of the cart, wondering whether he would brush against Javert's hand by accident if he moved just a little – would that too not be visible on their faces? The enormity of what they had done seemed large as a mountain to him, looming above them, giving away that sin to the eyes of everyone who looked at them. It had to be obvious that he had touched that mouth with his, that Javert's chest had rested against his own, that in the darkness, they had strained against each other, had found solace in the touch of skin against skin – was it not obvious too in the way he looked at Javert that he had touched that dark hair with a tenderness he had never known before, something unfolding within him like a leaf in spring at that fever-dream carnality that was sin and yet, and yet...?

He could hardly bear to meet Javert's eyes under the curious glances of the men who accompanied the cart back to the inn. He sometimes thought he could feel the heat of Javert's gaze on the skin of his exposed throat and flushed, but when he turned, Javert's head would be bowed, the line of his shoulders tense, and he dared not look at him for more than that short, stolen moment for fear that something in his gaze would give away their shame to the men who had come to their rescue.

To place his hands in Javert's hands and feel those long fingers close the iron around him, he thought he could bear that. Nothing they had done that night had changed the fundamental truth of the world, which said that he, Jean Valjean, the wretch, was a recidivist, and would wear the green blouse, and never hear that word Monsieur again; and that Javert would serve the law, and see him clasped in irons, and never think again of that night when he had hung in the darkness above the abyss, or when his fever-hot body had sought the comfort of Valjean's arms. But to have that night taken from him, something he hardly understood himself save that he knew that it was a sin, and that these men would spit on him for it – he could not bear that thought when the memory of warm skin against his own still made him shudder, and there seemed to him a truth almost as profound as the memory of the Bishop standing in the light of the open doorway in the recollection of how Javert's heart had beat against his own in his sleep. 

And then the cart hit a rock in the road and swayed, and suddenly there was Javert's hand on his arm, clutching at him with enough force to bruise, though Javert had gone deathly pale, his entire body curling in on himself at that jarring motion that must have sent fresh pain through his leg when the broken bones ground together. Instinct had made Valjean turn towards him, clasp his shoulder lightly in support and comfort – but there he hesitated, frozen with dread once more by his awareness of the eyes on them, and the fear that his touch was no longer welcome, for what comfort could a convict give a man who served the law?

A soft groan escaped Javert. His brow gleamed with sweat, and he did not move for the longest moment. At last, he raised his tired face and looked at Valjean; the pain had left deep lines around his eyes, drawn his brows together, but Valjean no longer thought that ferocious expression fearsome. If there was still something of the guard dog in Javert, then this was not the face of the furious animal ready to sink its teeth into his arm – at most, he thought, there was tiredness here, and a certain despondency, a sleek hound meant for the hunt who could not decide whether to follow the summoning sound of the hunting horn in the distance, or to stay and lick the hand of its master. 

Valjean looked down at Javert thoughtfully, then finally, with great regret, took his hand from Javert's shoulder. There was no more Monsieur le Maire, as Javert had told him. That was the past; already the thought of the title held a strangeness for him, and he thought of that man who had been mayor with wonder, no longer able to believe that not long ago, it had been he who wore the mayor's chain and put his seal on documents.

No. Javert would find no comfort in his touch, and if he did, it would be a lie. And the time for lies had been swept away by the torrent of rain that had nearly taken their lives as well. He had been returned to the truth; it would do no good to waste what hours he had left with idle dreams of things that were impossible.

It was Javert's man who met them on the road, not too far from where the farmer had promised them they would soon rest in an inn for the night. His name was Durand, and he had changed his lame steed for a heavy-boned, spindly mare, and had, so he proclaimed with a strange triumph which at first made little sense to Valjean, searched every inn and every small hamlet near these forests for news of them. He had barely reined in his horse to walk by their side when he produced a letter from his pocket, straightening while that grating smile spread across his face once more, and then bowed to Valjean while he held the letter out to Javert.

“Monsieur le Maire,” he said formally, and Valjean froze, for he had not expected to ever be called by that title again. And now, certainly Javert would set the matter straight; indeed Javert could have Durand produce his handcuffs, and–

Javert reached out to take hold of the letter when it was handed him. Durand was still smiling, and did not even look at Javert as he addressed Valjean. “You will excuse me, Monsieur, I am certain; only, that letter came from the Prefecture, and was deemed to be of the highest importance. Inspector Javert will want to read it as soon as possible.”

The letter had been opened, Valjean could see that, and likewise could he feel Javert go tense beside him as his fingers clenched around the wrinkled paper. Javert remained silent; all Valjean could hear was the rustling of the paper in his hand, and then, at last, the softest sound as Javert exhaled while his fingers folded the letter again. Where his body brushed against Valjean, he could still feel the tension that ran through him.

"Monsieur le Maire," Javert said in an even voice, but when he turned his head, his face was very pale, and his lips tightly pressed together, as though he was desperate to keep himself from giving away some secret. Was that it, Valjean wondered with some helplessness. Would Javert renounce him now, not only reveal him as that convict Jean Valjean to Durand, but also reveal the shame of his sin, cover the strange, breathless wonder of that night beneath insult and incrimination until even to himself, Javert's own pleasure in what had taken place was forgotten, buried so deeply that he would never find it again, not even in the darkest, loneliest nights of future years?

Valjean reached out, prayed that his own hand would not tremble, and when he saw that it did, wrapped it quickly around Javert's hand and the letter contained within. "No, Javert. It can wait until we have arrived. I am certain this is no business for the road," he said, light with relief when Javert's face closed for a moment, and then Javert sank back against the cart's side once more, his hand dropping to rest in his lap with the letter.

Hastily, Valjean pulled back his own hand. Javert's shoulder still pressed against his own, but the touch was no longer reassuring, as it had once been in the valley where the warmth and the scent of Javert's body had by some strange twist of fate come to denote safety and comfort. How strange that now this same body that had slept in his arms, and cried out against him in his sleep, would deliver him back to the cold plank and the lonely, tormented dreams of the prisoner!

"As you say, Monsieur," Javert said, and although his voice was strangely toneless, Valjean did not dare to ask for what the letter might contain, nor why Javert had not yet denounced him to Durand. Perhaps there was a chance to make his escape yet, Valjean thought again, aware that Durand was watching them still, the raw-boned mare plodding along beside them.

Perhaps, if Javert desired to wait until they reached an inn to make his arrest a spectacle worthy of an audience, there was still a chance. It was easy to lose the trail of a man in the valleys of the Ardennes, he told himself, and then he bowed his head, and looked at his hands, and the tiredness that rose within him at the thought of the endless toil he would be delivered to once more was so great that almost, it seemed preferable to hold out his hands in submission and bend his neck for the collar and let Javert do with him what he must.

#

Durand hovered around them, even after they were installed at a table in an inn that seemed clean and prosperous, although they were the only guests in the taproom. The inn-keeper had brought cushions so that Javert's broken leg rested as comfortably as possible on a wooden chair near the fire, and had assured Valjean that he had sent his boy for the doctor in the nearest town, who would certainly arrive within an hour or two. Still Durand stood next to them with a strange expectancy, his lips twitching every now and then as if he was trying to hide a smile, so that Valjean felt his skin crawl in horror at the thought that he must know. And yet, again and again, Durand's gaze came to rest on Javert instead of him. At last Valjean could no longer bear it and straightened, cold sweat running down his back as he reclaimed the mayor's posture and assurance, wrapping himself in that lie right there in front of Javert.

"It has been a trying journey for us. If you could give us some privacy so that the inspector can make his report, Durand..."

"Of course, Monsieur le Maire," Durand said, his smile obsequious and strangely triumphant while Javert paled even more. Then the man bowed and went towards the kitchen, from where soft singing could be heard, and then surprised laughter when Durand entered.

Valjean took a deep breath. Almost he reached out to rest his own hand on Javert's, the hand that was still clenched around the letter – but then Durand returned, and by his side was a girl in a stained apron, holding an empty bucket. Valjean clenched his hand around his armrest instead, careful to keep his eyes off Javert, for he still feared that something in his gaze would give him away. It had to be obvious, the way he could barely look at Javert, and yet not look away from him for long either – and furthermore, after these long days in the wilderness, must not the savagery of his unshaven face and ragged coat give away the convict who had been hidden beneath the varnish of the factory owner and the mayor's chain all these long years?

“Marie will help me water the horses,” Durand said, and the triumph in his eyes increased as he walked past Javert and nodded at the letter in his hand. “Ah, Monsieur le Maire, forgive me. That letter was not the only news I brought. Sister Simplice sent a message as well, asking that in case you were found, you would return as quickly as possible, for that woman in the hospital – you will know of whom I speak, Monsieur – is unlikely to make it through the week.” 

Durand left the empty taproom, the girl by his side swinging her bucket as they went, but Valjean did not move, even when the door closed behind them and he and Javert were alone once more. The message had hit him with the suddenness of the storm that had upturned their lives so severely, and now, he could not move, could no longer see the small inn, the pale, drawn face of Javert, or the letter in his hand.

For so many days, life had been reduced to Javert, to food, to warmth. The valley had closed around them, the raging river had severed any connection to the world outside, and for so many days, he had ceased to think about what he had left behind: the good he had tried to build with these hands that belonged to a sinner, with the silver that had come from a saint. Now Montreuil rose before him in his mind once more: the factory where so many of the town's poor found an income, the women with their weary faces and red hands, who would return empty-handed to their hungry children should he be returned to the galleys, the men with their bent backs and bare heads, who might know that same agony of seeing a loved one fade from starvation that had once, so long ago, driven him to reach for a loaf of bread through a window in his great despair. No more would the hospital grow; no more would the school offer knowledge to small heads doomed to a life of misery from before their birth.

All that, Valjean saw, and also he saw Fantine as he had left her, pale as the sheets in her bed in the hospital, and the light that illuminated her face with a radiance like that of the painted church windows in the morning sun whenever she spoke of her daughter, for whom she had sacrificed so much. His despair grew as he imagined her abandoned, dying all alone in the hospital while those who took care of her could not even give her the certainty that the mayor was alive, that he would set things right and provide for her daughter. Ah, what a wretch was he, to worry whether they would have more fish to eat when back in Montreuil, Fantine lay dying, holding fast to that one, mistaken belief that the mayor was a good man, that he would see her child returned to her!

He did not even realize that in his great anguish, he had stood, had taken a first step towards the door – but suddenly Javert's arm was on him, his face a grimace of pain and some other, deeper turmoil. A knife was in his hand once more, and Valjean looked at it without fear, wondering whether Javert had taken it and kept it hidden all this time after he had left him in the morning. Was this what it would come to after all?

The knife was pressed lightly to his chest, and he met Javert's eyes. “You heard him,” Valjean said, and there was a great weariness in his voice. “She is dying. I need to return; I am the only one who can help the child now. Javert, please, you must–”

“Please!” Javert released a bitter laugh and pressed the knife closer. Valjean did not move, even though the tip of the blade threatened to penetrate his stained shirt. “Please, you say, as if – no.” His eyes were wild; tangled strands of his hair that had escaped the queue once more framed his face. “No, it is too late for that. No excuses, no pleading now, no–” He made a choked sound when Valjean moved closer; the tip of the knife slid through the worn fabric of his shirt and pierced his skin at last. Only the panting of Javert's fast breathing could be heard as a small spot of red bloomed on the dirtied shirt.

“Javert. You want me in the galleys; I say to you, I will go, I will not resist, I will not attempt to flee, if you will just let me return the child to Fantine before it is too late! When the child is safe with the Sisters I will go with you, and you may do with me as you like; Javert, I swear to you–”

“You! Swearing to me!” More blood welled up when Javert laughed again, though his hand was trembling. Valjean felt no pain, only the pressure; his thoughts were in too much turmoil at the thought of Fantine dying alone and the child being abandoned to feel the cut, even though a tiny trickle of blood now ran hot down his chest. ”And here you talk of a child, of your charity, of–”

He broke off with a tormented sound, the knife trembling even harder against Valjean's chest. Javert's other hand clenched around the letter he still held. After a moment, he raised it with another despairing laugh and pressed it against Valjean's chest as if in accusation, his eyes still wide and wild as he held Valjean's gaze. “And do you know what that is? A letter from the Prefecture, _Monsieur le Maire_ , wherein my own patron, to whom I owe this position I have held in Montreuil, calls me mad! To accuse my superior, the esteemed Monsieur Madeleine, who was offered the Légion d'honneur, of being a former convict! Only a madman could come up with such an idea! Only,” and now Javert laughed once more, that terrible, rusty sound, “only there is no Monsieur Madeleine, there is only Jean Valjean, and my patron advises me to ask for your forgiveness, Monsieur, and tells me that the true Jean Valjean has been found!”

“Javert...” Valjean could not think of a response to those words, not when there was a madness staring at him from Javert's dazed, dark eyes that he recognized both as despair and as that wild emotion that had swept both of them up in its grasp a night ago like the raging river had swept away the bridge: a Dionysian ecstasy that had no explanation even now, but that set his heart to beat faster with a strange, aching tension when he looked at Javert's parted lips and the way his skin gleamed with perspiration.

“Yes, that wretch has been found, and I am summoned to Arras to testify. What do you say to that, Monsieur Madeleine?”

Now it was Valjean who trembled, although he nevertheless raised his hand to lightly rest it on Javert's hand that was still clutching the knife. “Javert, we both know there is no Valjean in Arras. Valjean is standing before you. Yes, Valjean is in your power at last. But I tell you, Javert, there is a woman who is dying, and a child that needs to be brought to her. I swear to you, once that is done I will go with you to Arras–”

“And do you think me a madman too!” Javert now cried, although there was neither anger nor satisfaction in his voice. “To tell me such a thing, to say that you are Valjean, and expect me to let you go...!”

“Javert, I _must_ go.” Valjean's voice was soft now, but his hand still remained there on top of Javert's hand, the knife still pointing at his own chest. With every breath he took, another droplet of blood escaped the small wound to soak into the fabric of his shirt, but his voice did not shake as he continued, and he felt no pain, only a deep weariness. “I will return to Montreuil, Javert, and send for the child, and if her mother will not live, the Sisters shall care for her. Then I will be yours, I swear this, Javert, but you will not stop me now, not even with your knife.”

Javert snarled, all reason forgotten for a moment as he shook off Valjean's hand and pointed the blade at him again, holding it right there at the sensitive, thin skin of his throat where one night ago, Valjean had felt his lips rest against his fluttering pulse and whisper words of madness. “You will go nowhere, Valjean!”

Valjean held his gaze as he moved forward, forcing Javert to press the blade harder against his throat until at last, the skin broke, and a thin line of red appeared. He did not make a sound; only Javert's heavy breathing filled the room.

“I will go,” he said at last, still ignoring the knife at his throat. “I must go. You see me now for the wretch I am, and you are right. I ask you, Javert, what worth has the life of a sinner? Very little, certainly you will agree there. It is of far less worth than that of an innocent wronged and suffering; of a child abandoned. And so you cannot threaten me. My soul was purchased by a saint; my body you may harm, but it will not change this truth: I will go to see Fantine, Javert, and I will find her child.” 

He did not move even when the blade at his throat trembled, and then was pulled back with another choked sound of despair. Within his own chest, his heart was contracting painfully. The thin cut at his throat throbbed with heat, and then he took a first step back, waiting for Javert to call out for Durand, to strike at him with the knife in the madness that had overcome him, and still he could not help but take another step towards the door.

“Valjean,” Javert said at last, and his voice was rough, trembling with an emotion Valjean could not place. That could not be the threat of tears; that gleam in Javert's eyes had to be the gleam of triumph, or rage at his attempted escape.

And then Javert once more turned the blade on himself, pressed the tip that was still red with Valjean's blood to his own chest, and Valjean froze.

“You will not leave this room, Valjean.” Javert pressed the knife harder against his chest, until his shirt, too, was stained by a small speck of red, mingling with the drop of Valjean's blood that had clung to the blade. “Do you hear me? I will not let you leave. You don't care about your own life, you say? Well then, what about this, what about this life you dragged from that broken bridge?”

Valjean trembled. Within him, once more the need to reach Fantine before her death reared up: without him, her death would be lonely; she would know herself forgotten, and her child abandoned, and that knowledge weighed as heavily on him as the memory of the forty-sous piece in his palm. And yet, there before him stood a man with a knife in his hand, with the first drops of blood spilling from the wound, and Valjean, who had known himself followed by this shadow intent on returning him to misery for so long, who had held this life in his hands two times, and slept by his side, could no more take another step towards the door than he could have released Javert's hand when his touch had been all that stood between Javert and death.

His breath came fast. Once more there was the roar of his blood in his ears, loud and angry like the sound of the sea. Again he told himself to flee; instead, after a long moment, he raised his hands, stretched them out towards Javert, palms up, wrists bare and vulnerable and marked by the old, pale scars of his captivity. His hands trembled slightly, but his eyes did not move away from Javert's face when he spoke. "Please, Javert. You are right – I will let you clasp me in cuffs, I will submit to you and let you do as you wish this very moment. Just put away that knife, and swear to me that when we return, you will have someone send for the child and give her into the Sisters' care. I ask no more than that; certainly you must agree that is fair?"

Silence stretched between them. Valjean watched as another drop of blood slowly soaked into the already dirty fabric. Javert's panting was that of a frightened animal. At last, he laughed, though the sound was closer to a sob, and his fingers that held the blade relaxed until it slipped from his grip and fell to the floor. The sound of impact made Valjean flinch, but then Javert's hands were on him, gripping his collar to draw him close.

"No," Javert said, his voice low and full of anguish. "No, of course you will not flee if that means my death. Your own life you will throw away for a woman of the town without a second thought, but my life, yes, my life, the life of the police spy who has watched you for so long with suspicion – my life you will save?"

He laughed again, and his hands that gripped Valjean's collar so tightly shook, and then they tensed, and Valjean felt himself drawn forward until they were so close that he could feel the heat of Javert's breath on his lips, could see his pupils dark and dilated, felt the brush of an escaped strand of hair against his cheek.

"What sinner is this who acts the part of the saint?" Javert asked, and his voice nearly broke with despair. "What... what _are_ you, Jean Valjean, why do you... I do not understand you!”

The words tore free from his throat in an anguished cry; sweat gleamed on his brow; at his throat, his pulse throbbed. His lips parted, his eyes closed, and then Valjean found himself pulled even closer, and he exhaled a shuddering sigh against Javert's lips before that mouth opened beneath his own, and he tasted the heat of Javert's tongue. It almost seemed more bite than kiss; Javert was desperate, and Valjean, who knew that the same hands now clutching at him would deliver him to the chain and the lash soon enough, who knew no name for this heat that spread within him at the broken sob Javert moaned against his lips but that of _sin_ , Valjean slipped his fingers into Javert's hair, cradled that skull in his hands, stroked a thumb against the coarse whiskers and for one moment, tried not to think of the salt and the gulls, but the warmth of a body against his own, the way Javert's breathing had changed when he had put his hand on his cock, and that sweet, unbearable torment of thrusting into the slick grasp of Javert's hand.

When they parted at last, they were both breathing heavily. Javert's lips looked bruised, and almost Valjean leaned forward again to press his mouth to them once more, to feel that softness and that heat and thrust his tongue into that warm, welcoming mouth until he had kissed Javert into silence, until he had kissed the madness out of him, licked the taste of his own saliva from his mouth, drowned himself in Javert's moans.

And yet, he knew that he could not. For the sake of both of them, he could not, and instead he raised a trembling hand to curve it around Javert's neck, smooth his thumb against the flutter of his pulse.

Javert's eyes closed and his lips parted; at first, the only sound that escaped was a choked sigh of despair and great weariness. “Monsieur,” he then said, and Valjean could not breathe for a moment when he heard himself addressed in such a way once more. Javert raised his hand to cover Valjean's with his own trembling fingers; then he took a step back, and gently pulled Valjean's hand down, and Valjean stood before him with his hands held out in surrender once more. With calm concentration, as if there was something sacred and profound about such an act, Javert's long fingers wrapped around his wrists, searched out the shape of the irons, and settled into the deep furrows of his scars.

“I have reported to you what the Prefecture sent me. They call me mad and bide me to apologize. Monsieur, you will understand that I cannot apologize, and I must tell you that my suspicions of you have not been laid to rest by the arrest of this man Champmathieu, who might be innocent of the crimes I suspected you of after all. You will understand, Monsieur, that I will need to write to Paris again, for when I beheld your scars in that valley, my suspicions grew. And yet Monsieur Chabouillet tells me I am wrong, and mad, and so you see that I must present these new proofs of my suspicion to him, and let him decide how I am to act, for to suspect you twice without reason for such a crime would be a grave disrespect of both your office and my superior.”

Valjean looked down at where Javert's hands held his own. With another low sound that could have been frustration as well as despair, Javert's fingers opened ever so slowly, releasing him as he had been released from his irons years ago, and the chains had fallen off, and he had been a free man at last. When he looked up, he found that the look on Javert's face was dazed, as though it was Javert who had been released from years of captivity and did not know how to live in a world that held no walls, no bars, but only the blue sky and green meadows to mark his horizon.

Almost Valjean raised his hand to touch that red, bitten mouth once more, and this thing within him that was sin, and so much more, curled through his veins with a sudden, sharp longing for that simple pallet and the threadbare blanket, and the comfort of warmth during the blackness of night. Instead, he thought of Fantine, and of the child that would live forgotten, abandoned, another life lost to misery and cruelty, and he pressed his hand to Javert's chest instead, where the small spot of red had bloomed on his shirt, where his heart beat with fast, firm thuds beneath warm skin.

He thought of demanding from Javert a promise to not raise the blade against himself again, but then Javert's hand came up, trembling harder now that it covered his hand again. For a moment they stood facing each other, and Valjean felt the steady, quick beat of Javert's heart, and the warmth of his blood.

It was madness, Valjean thought again – at best, it was madness, at worst, it was sin, and yet, what he had felt, what he still felt, was too vast, to strange for such small words. Then Javert drew his hand up, and his mouth settled against the inside of his scarred wrist, his lips soft and hot as a brand so that Valjean made a low, keening sound at this touch that was too gentle not to hurt.

“I need to write the letter, Monsieur,” Javert then said, and released him, but he did not step away, even though his shoulders were tense and his eyes lowered.

Valjean looked at him. He did not think he would see Javert again. He had to hope they would never meet again, for although such a man might trick his conscience once, he did not think that Javert could let him go a second time. His wrists felt heavy and hot, his skin burned where Javert's lips had touched him so gently, and he remembered again the heat and the strange, pleasing roughness of Javert's body against his own.

Before Javert, the last person to touch him with kindness had been the Bishop; before the Bishop, no one had touched him with gentleness since his childhood. Now that he looked at Javert and felt a sickening ache in his heart, he did not think he would know that feeling again until he died.

He turned his head away. He walked towards the door with slow steps. He waited, but there was no shout for Durand. His hand rested against the door; almost he managed to make himself open it without turning back for one last look, but something moved him to turn, and he saw Javert still standing where he had left him, shoulders slumped, eyes empty and despondent. He thought that he should speak, but there were no words for this thing within him.

“Javert,” he said at last, and when Javert's head rose, he felt a shudder run through him to have those eyes fixed on himself again. There were no words he could say. Everything had been said between them. Whatever this was had been a madness, a thing of that valley; now that they had crossed the stream, it needed to be left behind, as they had left behind the pool and the hut and the overgrown garden.

“Javert. I will see you again.” He had not meant to say the words. He did not believe they would. He knew they could not meet again, not ever. But now that melancholy despondency was gone from Javert's face, and there was a new sharpness, a hint of the old glint in his eyes that made Valjean shiver and think of a cat in wait for a mouse, and of the way Javert had thrust against him so wantonly in the darkness of the night. For one long, final moment, he allowed Javert to see the heat that rose on his face before he opened the door and went through, and then closed it behind him, and though there was still no cry, no sound of running feet, he was flushed with this strange warmth that was not quite fear and not quite shame all the way to where a carriage awaited.

**Author's Note:**

> [Go and look at the amazing and incredible art which beorntobewild drew for this story!](http://beorntobewild.tumblr.com/post/100510181509/my-art-for-esteliels-wonderful-big-bang-fic-to) <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [With Open Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919128) by [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M)




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